


Groundhog GDIME

by AnnaFan



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: An Uruk from Milton Keynes, F/M, Girl drops into Middle Earth, Het, M/M, Multiple Lothiriels, Non-canon pairings, Other fictional characters - Freeform, Parody, Slash, Talking horses, Tenth eleventh twelfth thirteenth walkers, bad jokes about Derrida, dirty limmericks, romantic pining, strange cross-overs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-12
Updated: 2016-10-30
Packaged: 2018-01-08 11:25:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 34
Words: 71,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1132063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaFan/pseuds/AnnaFan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At last, for your reading delectation... the ultimate tenth (not to mention eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth) walker fic.  Read this one and you need read no others!</p><p>Charlize has read all the fanfics, she knows all the tricks... All she has to do is follow the tried and tested methods for falling into Middle Earth, and she'll get the elven prince of her dreams.  And if at first you don't succeed, try, try again... and again... and again.  Not a Legomance (but not for want of trying on Charlize's part).  Any resemblance to any real Legomances out there is of course entirely non-accidental.</p><p>And finally...  after a shamefully long delay, I have finally completed this!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lost Underground

I've often wondered how Charlize and I ended up as friends. I'm quiet, maybe even a bit nerdy, keep my head down, work hard at school, manage to get okay marks, nothing spectacular, but good enough. Charlize on the other hand. Well, she's the archetypical wild child. The cool kid – in fact, the too-cool-for-school kid. She's pretty, and a bit flaky, but kind and funny. Mostly she lives in a world of her own imagination. And a lot of the time, that world is Middle Earth. She's wildly in love with Legolas, of course. Film version, naturally. I don't think she's actually read the books.

The day our, or rather, her story started, we were in a double maths lesson. Charlize hated maths lessons. She hated them even more than she hated English, History, Business Studies, IT. In fact she hated them almost as much as she hated sports lessons. And sport was something that really sucked, in her opinion. All that getting hot and sweaty. It made her hair lank. Her face went red and unattractive. There was the ever-present risk of breaking a nail. Eww. Viewed that way, maybe maths wasn't so bad. At least she could stare out the window. 

So stare out the window she did. In the distance, on the edge of the school field (scene of aforementioned pink and sweaty humiliation and nail-breaking incidents) was a stand of trees. I felt as though I could read her mind. It wasn't hard to guess that the trees were being woven into her favourite fantasy, the one in which she was a beautiful wood elf with violet eyes and waist-length golden curls. (Yes, I have pointed out to her that no-one has violet eyes. No, it hasn't made a difference. She just says what's the point of having a fantasy unless you make it a good one). And a flowing, figure-hugging dress of soft white silk with a silver girdle – Charlize devotes endless amounts of time to thinking about the clothes she might wear. Personally I go for whatever's on top of the heap in my drawer and looks like it isn't too crumpled. But of course, today we were in school, so neither of us looked our best, in shapeless polyester school trousers and crumpled white shirts and a tie of a hideous and peculiarly vivid green – one fashion issue we do agree on is that we both look terrible in school uniform. 

Charlize has told me about her fantasy so many times I feel like I could tell the story myself. It's the one in which her amazing martial arts skills save the day time and time again, and earn her first the respect, then the undying devotion and love of Legolas Greenleaf. Needless to say, Charlize has not realised that Greenleaf simply is the English translation of Legolas. And of course, given her attitude to sports, she doesn't actually possess any martial arts skills either. But I digress.

Back in the classroom, her reverie was abruptly and annoyingly interrupted.

“Miss Jones, would you care to tell us whether we should use the sine or cosine of the angle to solve this particular problem?” 

I could see Charlize reassessing her list of most hated lessons. Suddenly, maths went back up into the number one spot, ousting the hated PE lessons, no matter how hot and sweaty they made her. I surreptitiously scribbled 'sine' on the back of my notebook just as Charlize said “Cosine.” The wrath of Mrs Stone descended on her, scarier than the legions of Sauron before the black gate. Extra homework was duly awarded.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

Given the extra homework, I was a bit surprised when, 10 minutes after I got back from school, Charlize called. Though thinking about it, I probably shouldn't have been. She'd probably cobble something together during register next morning. Charlize was not one for letting something as mundane as homework cramp her style. However, her next words really were cause for surprise on any understanding of the word: she suggested a bike ride in the country. Charlize, who never does any exercise, whose idea of a hobby is trawling round endless (and I mean endless) clothes shops in Manchester city centre on a Saturday.

“Where to?” I asked, thinking we'd probably go as far as the local park where she'd hang out eyeing up the lads on the skateboard park while I died of boredom.

“Alderley Edge,” she replied.

“Come off it Charlize, quit messing. That's a good 6 or 7 miles each way and you hate cycling.”

“No, it'll be fun. The weather's nice, it won't get dark for hours yet, we can go and explore the caves...”

“You... caves … dark... mud … spiders,” I said, then did my best computer-voice imitation, “Does – not – compute.”

 

“No, seriously, I've got a brilliant idea. But I need to go to Alderley Edge to put the plan into action.”

And that's how I found myself trundling along the Cheshire lanes, past fields of cows and expensive houses with footballers' flashy cars parked outside them, while Charlize puffed and panted and sweated on a naff pink bike that she'd outgrown a few years back but hadn't been bothered enough to replace. While we cycled, she explained the plan. Even by Charlize's mad-cap standards, this one was outstanding. Outstandingly dumb, that is.

I knew she read loads of fan fiction. She particularly loved those 100,000 word plus, multi-chapter epics where someone with violet eyes, wearing a floaty white silk dress (yup, that's right, it wasn't even her own imagination that concocted her favourite maths-lesson-fantasy) fell into Middle Earth, fell out with Legolas (because every Legomance needs a bit of ramping up of sexual tension), saved his life in battle and eventually married him. I have to admit I love them too, albeit for rather different reasons. There's something hypnotically addictive about the bad spelling, atrocious grammar and general crimes against the English language. They make Dan Brown look like Joseph Conrad. And that's before you get to the hilarious anachronisms. I mean, the books are modelled on a Saxon and Medieval world (with a side order of Roman architecture in Gondor and Norse mythology), and yet some of these writers have zip fasteners, electric light switches and bras (I'm still looking for brain bleach to erase my memories of the scenes involving the removal of ye genuine olde worlde Medieval brassieres).

But she'd really lost the plot this time (assuming there had ever been much of a plot there in the first place, which generally there wasn't). She thought that by recreating some of the opening scenarios for girl-drops-into-Middle-Earth stories, she'd actually manage to get there herself. Totally crazy. And the one she favoured for today's little adventure was that good old standby, “Girl gets lost in caves and wanders around until eventually she stumbles across the Fellowship and realises she's in the Mines of Moria, by which time she's so frightened, in a bravely-trying-to-hide-her-fear-while-biting-her-lip-endearingly sort of way that Legolas just has to hold her in his arms and soothe her to sleep.”

 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

It was about 5.30 when we finally got to the Edge, that peculiar, wooded, beached whale of sandstone outcrop rising above the otherwise flat Cheshire Plain. We cycled through the village of Alderley and then set off up the road that runs up the slightly gentler slope round the back of the hill.

I waited half an hour at the top of the Edge while Charlize wheeled her bike up the road. I'd suggested taking the path straight up through the woods, but Charlize had voted that too steep even to push her bike along. We padlocked our bikes by the style, and hopped over a style onto one of the myriad paths that threaded their way round the top of the Edge. I knew my way around pretty well; I quite often cycled out this way with my brother, and had been mucking around there since childhood. Many of our games involved elves and dwarfs, but not Tolkien's (my spelling of 'dwarfs' may have tipped you off); in our games, we wriggled through caves and pretended we'd rescued the Weirdstone of Brisingamen and were going to raise Arthur's sleeping army of Knights to ward off the forces of evil in our world, not Middle Earth. But we'd grown out of those games a few years earlier. However, the layout of the top of the Edge was still clear in my mind. We emerged from the fringes of the sparse trees on its flat top, and onto the red sandstone outcrop above the scarp slope. Slithering down the sandy path, we crossed under the cliff and found the most impressive of the cave systems. I say 'most impressive' because this particular cave had a large entrance, though in fact the tunnels didn't penetrate that far into the hillside.

Charlize produced a torch from her bag.

“Stay here, Sophie. I need to do this on my own.” I interpreted this to mean “Even though you're geeky and nowhere near as pretty as I am, there is no way I'm risking Legolas falling for the wrong girl.” She switched the torch on and set off down the sandy slope into the mouth of the cave, disappearing round a corner into the darkness of the left of the two tunnels. I settled down with a book (by an odd coincidence, another of Alan Garner's, only set in Wales this time – The Owl Service) and waited.

After three quarters of an hour I started to feel a bit worried. After an hour, I decided I had to do something. I got my own torch out and started to explore. My brother and I had been down this particular set of caves when we were younger. I knew that all the tunnels led to dead ends, so I searched them systematically, starting with the left hand one which I'd seen Charlize go down. To my surprise, she wasn't there. I felt a bit unsettled, scared even, but told myself that there had to be a rational explanation. I'd been so absorbed in my book, perhaps I'd not noticed her emerge from one and go off to explore another. I set off down the other tunnel, one hand running down the dusty, cold sandstone wall as I went, the other holding the torch. It didn't take long for me to reach the end of the tunnel. A blank wall of red rock greeted me. No sign of Charlize here either. 

I was starting to get really scared now. Where the hell had she gone? I turned to make my way out. I'd have to call the police, get the cave rescue out. Perhaps she'd sneaked past me and gone looking elsewhere on the Edge, for a more extensive cave system. Some of them were quite large, with hidden sink holes and drops she could have got trapped in. And at the back of my mind was the idea that perhaps, just perhaps, her madcap scheme had worked. Surely it couldn't have. Maybe I was going as crazy as she was. I had a vision of myself, standing awkwardly in front of a police officer and Charlize's parents, trying to explain that she'd gone to Middle Earth because she had a crush on a fictional elf.

Just as I reached the entrance, a piercing scream rent the silence. It came from the left-hand tunnel, the one I'd explored first, the one that had been empty moments earlier. My heart started to race and my mouth went dry with fear. My instincts told me to run like crazy, but gathering what little courage I had, I went back down the tunnel, the beam from the torch dancing around like mad as my hand shook. I turned the corner, and almost fell over Charlize. She was unconscious on the ground. Running from her cheek to her jawbone was a set of scratches, which looked as though they'd been made by fingernails. I knelt beside her. As I knelt to feel for a pulse, terrified that I might not find one, she gave a loud groan and her eyes flickered open. 

“Oh god, that was awful. Get me home...”

 

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

 

It took me ages to worm the story out of Charlize. Eventually she told me. (I had to promise to let her copy my maths homework for the next month).

She had stumbled down the tunnel. Unlike the real tunnel in our world, this one went on for a long time, several hundred yards. Suddenly she came out into a brightly lit hall, torches hanging from sconces. The hall was filled with the sound of voices and merrymaking. She realised that the merrymakers were in fact dwarves. Delighted by the apparent success of her plan and spurred on by the prospect of meeting her beloved elven prince, she strode up to the dais at the top of the hall where what she presumed was the dwarf king sat in state with his highest courtiers.

“My lord king,” she said, sweeping a low curtsey. She paused, surprised to find her voice a little deeper and hoarser than normal. Perhaps the dust in the tunnels. She coughed in an attempt to clear her voice, then continued, “I am a stranger, come to your world by the grace of the Valar.” (Yes, that sounded convincing, never heard that line before). “Would you, of your courtesy, do me the honour of telling me where I am, and what year this is?” (Getting into the swing of things now, any moment now, she'd start adding 'eth' to the end of words completely at random).

“My Lady, you are in the Hall of the Mountain King beneath the Lonely Mountain, in the year 3018 of the Third Age.”

“What month? I must know whether I am in time to get to Rivendell in time for Lord Elrond's council,” Charlize said, her voice still sounding strangely husky. She looked up at the dwarf. Strange, in her fantasies she had always looked down on him, her elegant elven stature lending an imposing gravitas to her appearance. Maybe the dais was higher than she thought.

“It is the month of June. You may, if you wish, travel in the company of Gimli son of Gloin, who goes to the council on behalf of our people.” (Yeah, right, she drops in from nowhere, but the King's going to send her off to a top secret meeting in Rivendell, no questions asked...) The King continued, “A Lady as beautiful, as clearly virtuous, as supremely wise and benevolent as yourself should not travel the northern wilds alone.”

“Why, your majesty, you are too kind...” Charlize simpered.

“But surely you must realise how beautiful you are, beautiful beyond compare. Your eyes, of a deep violet, the like of which I have never seen before. Your hair, like the purest spun gold. Your skin, so delicate and glowing, like blossom under the light of the moon.”

Charlize felt a blush rise to her cheeks. The King continued, “And the lusciousness, the luxuriance, the exquisite softness of your beard...”

Charlize's hand flew to her chin. Sure enough, it sprouted an amazing, thick, bushy growth of hair. Suddenly it all fell into place – her hoarse, deep voice, her stature. She was a dwarf. With a shriek, she fainted.


	2. Washing day: or the importance of paying attention to Strict Canon

We scrounged a lift from Charlize's dad. He dropped us off in the car park at his golf club and we wandered down the path to the river bank. I had my suspicions that Charlize was up to something. She had a rucksack – an unusual choice – she'd normally have said something along the lines of “rucksack are for dorks.” What's more, it was a very full one. I desperately wanted to ask her, but I knew her well enough to know that she'd clam up and sulk if I pushed things, so I followed her along the path.

I wonder what images “river” conjures up for you? Are you envisaging a sparkling torrent, splashing between moss and boulders, shaded by willows and rowan trees? I suppose by the standards of suburban Manchester, what we had was a pretty bucolic scene – lots of trees and grassy fields. But, frankly, the aesthetic standards of suburban Manchester are pretty low. I have to admit that the Mersey is a very brown,very muddy river, and it does smell a bit. It doesn't so much sparkle as ooze slowly and lazily, as if it can't be bothered to make too much effort in its progress towards the sea. In fact, if it could talk, it would probably say something along the lines of “Am I bovvered?” And by this stage in the Mersey's life, you're downstream of Stockport. Which really doesn't bear thinking about too closely. To add to the ambience, over in the distance, we could see the flyover for the M60 and hear the constant rumbling of traffic. After about 400 yards or so, Charlize broke the silence.

“Here,” she said, swinging the rucksack off her back, “Your turn with the rucksack.” Funnily enough, she never offered to take it back. A mile and a half later, following the hairpin bends of the river, she suddenly paused. We were on the outside of the meander at this point on the path, and there was a collection of large boulders, dotted along the edge of the water. 

“I think this will do,” said Charlize, and disppeared into the bushes the other side of the path. “Keep a look out.” I heard the zip on the bag, then a rustling, another sound of a zip, a bit more rustling. Then Charlize appeared, resplendent (if that's the right word) in a floaty white dress. I think I recognized it from Primark's window display from last weekend's trip to the Trafford Centre. (Please, never make me go to the Trafford Centre again. I'd sooner have my wisdom teeth out without anaesthetic).

I couldn't restrain myself any longer, but I tried to keep my voice casual. “So, what's the plan.”

“Well, I'm going to get in the water...,” Charlize began.

“Are you sure?” I squeaked. “The Mersey isn't exactly the cleanest river ever.”

“No pain, no gain. Anyway, I get into the river, then float downstream until it turns into the the Bruinduin...”

I couldn't help it, I burst out laughing. “Make up your mind – it's either the Bruinen near Rivendell or the Anduin – the Great River.”

“I can't stand it when you get all nit-picky.” Charlize actually pouted. She continued in a whiny voice, “This really matters to me. It IS the Bruinduin, I'm sure I remember the films right. I've seen them loads more time than you.” She glared at me, then started to wade out into the water. She gave a very loud squeal as the cold water swirled round her legs, then gritted her teeth and launched forward into the brown murk. After a few strokes, she reached the middle of the stream and rolled onto her back. Mud stained Primark, now there's a fashion statement you don't see very often. Her floating body started to drift gently downstream.

“See you back at the golf club in half an hour or so...” I yelled. I had no idea whether she could hear me. I had a quick look in the rucksack. Jeans and t-shirt, towel, perfume (good call), ah, pay dirt. A bar of chocolate. I settled down on the grass with the chocolate and my book. By yet another of those weird quirks of fate, I'd chosen appropriately. I'd stuffed our Eng Lit set text in my pocket. I started to read: “Call me Ishmael...”

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Charlize drifted on the current, the cold seeping into her body. Maybe this hadn't been the best way into Middle Earth. But she was dead set on floating like Ophelia (albeit without the drowning in a fit of madness bit) so that as she rounded the bend (Freudian slip there, I think) Legolas would see her from his vantage point in one of the trees and, overcome by her beauty, dive in to save her. Fortunately for the sake of her peace of mind and the plausibility (such as it was) of her day dream, she was blissfully unaware of the fact that her silky white dress was now the same colour as the surrounding water. After a while, however, she started to shiver and decided that some sort of exertion was called for, if only to warm her up a bit. She rolled over onto her front and started to do that awkward, neck wrenching, head-out-of-water breast stroke that women like her use to avoid their mascara running.

As she swam, she did indeed hear a voice. But not the simultaneously dulcet yet unquestionably masculine tones of her favourite Elf. It was a woman's voice. And definitely not dulcet (though arguably a bit masculine). It had more than a little of the fishwife about it.

She cast her eyes towards the bank. There, in place of trees and the distant view of the motorway, was a cluster of thatched huts, wisps of bluish smoke rising into the air from their chimneys. And clustered on the river bank was a group of people. Success of sorts – not Legolas, but at least she seemed to be in some part of Middle Earth. She struck out for the shore, but discovered that she was colder and more tired than she'd realised, the sodden skirts of her dress hampering her movements and threatening to pull her under. A couple of the men stripped off their tunics and started to wade into the shallows. Then one launched himself through the water towards her. He managed to grab her and tow her to the bank.

She landed in a spluttering heap on the muddy riverside, coughing and shivering. A rough blanket was thrown round her shoulders and the fishwife helped her to her feet. Tension relieved, everyone started talking at once. To Charlize's horror, she didn't understand a word of it. Eventually, the fishwife yelled something sharp but effective in shutting the rest up, and led Charlize to one of the huts. Once inside, she supplied her with a linen shift and a coarse woollen dress of a nondescript grey colour. She helped Charlize lace it up. To my friend's horror, it appeared that there was no underwear to go with this. Fortunately, the dress reached the ground.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

We pieced things together later. In retrospect it became obvious that time in Middle Earth had to pass at a different rate from time in our world. But for the time being, for Charlize one of the sources of anxiety and worry about her plight (other than the language barrier, the inedible food, the scratchy clothing, the damp and uncomfortable bedding, and the fact that her rescuers made her muck in with the work of the household) was the thought that her family and friends had no idea where she'd got to, and she'd been gone for at least a week.

She picked up a few words for items like bread, water, broom, and the like. But for the most part, she was isolated by her lack of their language. The river did appear to be called the Bruinduin (I guess it was a small, unimportant river in some obscure part of Middle Earth, hence it had never appeared on any of Tolkien's maps). Days were filled with back-breaking labour. There were floors to be swept, vegetables to be peeled, potato patches to be dug, pigs to be fed.

But the absolute nadir of her experience was the point at which she had to help with the laundry. Various items – shifts, men's underwear, tunics – were tipped into a big wooden tub. The fishwife (Charlize never did work out how to pronounce her name) handed Charlize a wooden paddle, obviously intended to pound the washing with. Then she filled the tub with hot water from cauldrons heated over the fire. She disappeared behind the hut, only to return moments later with a bucket. Charlize reeled back in horror as the smell hit her – it was full of fermented urine. The woman tipped it into the hot water, at which point the stench of urea became unbearable. The ammonia fumes hit the back of Charlize's throat and burned the inside of her nostrils, and she retched and gagged. The whole situation became too much for her, and she fainted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

I found her on the muddy bank of the Mersey, just round the corner from where I'd been reading my book. As I knelt down beside her, a pungent smell assaulted my nose. Her eyes fluttered open, just in time to hear my first words to her.

“Charlize, have you wet yourself?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by an episode of Horrible Histories, in which I was reliably informed that fermented urine was indeed used to do laundry in the Middle Ages. 
> 
> Also, I did a bit of online research on Medieval underwear, having always thought that women's knickers/panties (depending on whether you speak British or US English) were a relatively late addition to female dress. And it looks like I was right on this one. There is a historian at the University of Innsbruck, Beatrix Nutz, who has examined archaeological finds from an Austrian castle, dating back to the 15th century. According to Nutz, the garments that look a bit like modern women's knickers were in fact worn by men (there are Medieval drawing showing men and women having tug-of-war contests with these, a symbolic representation of “who wears the pants” in the household – in the normal run of things, men wore them and women didn't). 
> 
> But, to my amazement, they did have bras which looked remarkably like modern ones. So I guess I'm going to have to take back the snide things I said in the last chapter about bras in fanfic being anachronistic. Though they didn't fasten round the back like modern ones – the picture I saw on line showed a line of lace-holes down the side of the cup, suggesting they were laced up at either side. I don't quite know how they worked without modern elastic, mind you. Blimey, the things you can find out with the aid of the internet (a google search for “Beatrix Nutz Innsbruck” will bring up the relevant pictures! According to the summary on the Artdaily website, “The bras were intricately decorated with lace and other ornamentation, the statement said, suggesting they were also meant to please a suitor.”)


	3. Riding Lessons

“I have a great plan,” said Charlize. My heart sank. I braced myself. 

“We're going to go horse riding. I've got it booked, out at some stables in Poynton. Sunday afternoon. My dad says he'll drop us out there.”

Horses. My worst nightmare. And this was going to be even worse. This was horses plus Charlize's Lord of the Rings obsession. Maybe I could break my leg between now and Sunday. Or join the Foreign Legion. Or take holy orders. Or become an astronaut. Mars would do the trick nicely.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sunday arrived. I sat in the back of Charlize's dad's Audi. It never ceased to surprise me that such an expensive car was so cramped in the back. I know I'm quite tall for a girl, but even so. I stared out the window at the Cheshire countryside, trying not to think of the fate that awaited me. Eventually, we pulled into a yard behind a Victorian farmhouse. We were greeted by our instructor, a down-to-earth woman in jodhpurs and a hacking jacket.

Quarter of an hour later, I found myself perched on a smelly, uncomfortable equine mountain. Give her her due, Charlize looked much more at ease than I did. We started out in the dressage ring behind the stables. Walking I could handle. Trotting was a whole different thing. I was meant to go up and down with the horse. I couldn't get the timing right. Eventually I did half a circuit just about getting it (or so I thought), only to be told I was on the “wrong diagonal”. What the heck was that meant to mean? I was going round in circles, not across the diagonals. I may not do horses, but I'm not that bad at maths. Eventually we cantered. I swear my life flashed before my eyes. I am built for comfort, not for speed.

After half an hour in the dressage ring, we went out for a hack. This was the point at which Charlize's plan swung into action. We were at the top of a gentle grassy meadow running down to a stream. Charlize dug her heels into her horse's flanks and set off at a slow canter down the hill. Near the bottom she aimed her horse (if that's the right word) at a fallen log. The horse jumped gracefully, and as it landed, she slid off in a vague attempt at a stunt-double's dramatic fall. Our instructor set off at a gallop down the hill and rapidly dismounted beside Charlize's prostrate body. I followed as quickly as I could at a clumsy trot, bumping up and down in the saddle, all thoughts of a rising trot or anything else technical banished by the fear that this time Charlize had genuinely hurt herself.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

According to her later report, Charlize had not hurt herself. She'd had a mercifully, albeit smelly, sort landing. She came to in a dark stable, in a very well-used, in fact, over-used heap of straw. 

“Wotcha!” said a gravelly voice. “You must be the new deputy. Just let me finish shovelling the muck out and I'll show you round.”

There, wielding a shovel full of manure, was a small, yellow-eyed, fearsomely fanged orc. Charlize shrank back in horror. The orc, fortunately, showed no immediate signs of intending to attack. Charlize didn't feel entirely reassured, however. She waited anxiously, surveying her surroundings for escape routes, but could see none. She braced herself for the inevitable onslaught. Instead, the orc gave her a toothy grin, then spoke.

“I'm Shaznag, the stable-hand. Welcome to the Minas Morgul stables. Let's see, you'll need a set of black robes, then I'll show you your horse and introduce you to the rest of the second team.”

“Deputy who? Second team what?” Charlize spluttered.

“Deputy Nazgûl. You know, for when the Nine are busy in Gondor or wherever but the Dark Lord needs people scaring somewhere else. He uses his second team.” The orc dumped the sloppy mess on the spade into a bucket. Ducking through the open doorway, he carried it out to the midden. Having got rid of the malodorous contents, he pottered back into the stable. “Come on,” he said, wiping his hands on his trousers and gesturing for Charlize to follow him. “Thinking about it, it makes sense to meet the team first. You're just in time for tea.” 

Charlize followed Shaznag across the cobbled courtyard. A thin, penetrating rain fell from dark clouds above, and a fell wind from the east blew down the mountain slopes, chill and dismal. The walls on either side closed in claustrophobically, and the whole building exuded an atmosphere of menace. The black stones rose upwards above her head, and she caught glimpses of gargoyles, their twisted faces like Shaznag's, but frozen in expressions of fearsome hatred. Charlize shivered with fear. In front of her, Shaznag lifted the latch of a heavy wooden door. An orange glow spilled out of the doorway – Charlize immediately imagined all sorts of hideous furnaces and forges and red-hot torture implements. She could hear the crackle of a fire, surely being used for some evil intent. But faint heart ne'er won fair Legolas. She braced herself and stepped over the threshold.

The actual scene couldn't have been more different from her imaginings. The orange glow turned out to come from rather a cosy looking fireplace. Four black-cloaked figures sat, three at a table covered in a red and white checked table cloth, the fourth in a threadbare but comfy looking armchair by the fire. The table was laid for tea, with a tray of cucumber sandwiches and cakes together with a teapot (complete with crocheted tea-cosy in bright colours). In the centre of the table, there was a jam jar holding a slightly wilting bunch of daisies. The figure by the fire appeared to be toasting crumpets.

“Hello, Shazzer, old chap,” said one of the figures at the table. He had the poshest voice Charlize had ever heard. In fact, the only place she'd ever heard clipped tones like it were in some of the old war movies her mum watched on telly.

“I've brought you the new recruit,” grunted Shaznag. 

“Fantastic.” The figure stood up and shoved his hood back from his face to reveal a teenage boy, about the same age as Charlize, with floppy blond hair. The others also revealed their faces. 

“I'm Julian,” said the boy, “and these reprobates are Tarquin, Lucinda and Bunty.”

“Hello,” chorused the other Deputy Nazgûl. They were every bit as posh as Julian.

“Uh, hi, um, I'm Charlize. Look, I'm not really sure I'm meant to be here, I've kind of fallen through from another world.”

Lucinda grinned broadly. “Oh, don't worry about that. So have we. You see, when Sauron realised he needed more Nazgûl than Tolkien had provided him with, he decided to borrow some characters from other books in good old John Ronald Reuel's house. Now, there were loads of good ones to choose from – _Beowulf_ – he could have had Grendel. Or Malory's _Morte d'Arthur_ – Morgana would have made a fabulous Nazgûl. Though maybe a bit too good; she'd have given the Witch King of Angmar a run for his money. What a power struggle that could have been! Or just think of all the brilliant things in Greek mythology. The Dark Lord could have had his very own hydra, or a minotaur, or the Furies.”

“Unfortunately,” Julian chipped in, “he sub-contracted the job to the Mouth of Sauron. Lovely chap, but I'm afraid not the sharpest sword in the armoury. JRR happened to have his niece staying, and the Mouth picked up one of her books by mistake.”

“So you're characters from one of her books?” said Charlize.

“Absolutely on the button, old chap,” said Julian. 

“Can I ask what sort of book?” asked Charlize, with some trepidation.

“Oh, the only sort worth reading,” gushed Bunty. “We're from the _Four Chums in the Pony Club_ series. It ran to 37 books in the end, published between 1936 and 1952. We were all the rage back then.”

“Oh,” said Charlize, weakly. Then she couldn't help asking, “Do you find people are very scared of you?” 

“So long as we keep the cloaks and hoods on, and just give unearthly shrieks, we don't do too badly,” said Julian. “But in all honesty I have to admit that if we talk it does seem to spoil the effect a bit.”

“After all,” said Tarquin, speaking for the first time, in an extraordinarily upper crust drawl, “Didn't it ever strike you that the Nazgul were perhaps just a tad inept when they chased the Hobbits across the Shire?”

“A tad inept? More like utterly useless, old bean,” said Julian, with a self-deprecating chuckle. “My maiden aunts are scarier. The hobbits should have been a pushover, except it wasn't the first team, it was us on our first mission. The first team only got in on the act at Bree.”

“And jolly good they were too,” said Bunty, in a tone close to hero-worship. “I have a huge pash on Number Seven,” she giggled. “He's just too dreamy for words.”

“I suppose that would make sense of how the hobbits could get away with hiding under a tree root in a way that wouldn't even have fooled my four-year-old cousin,” said Charlize. Then she added, “The thing is, I don't think I'm meant to be a Nazgûl, not even a Deputy Nazgûl. I think I'm meant to have ended up on the other side.”

“Oh, what jolly rotten luck,” said Bunty, kindly. “Buttered crumpet?”

“You know, you really should think about giving this a try,” said Lucinda. “We get to gallop around all over the place, and the black horses the orcs steal for us from Rohan are just simply spiffing.”

“Yes, I simply don't see the big appeal of the other side,” asked Bunty. “Being baddies is just so much more fun. We have an absolutely ripping time of it.”

“Well, you know how you feel about Number Seven? That's how I feel about Legolas,” Charlize explained. “I just have to try to find him.”

“Heavens above, the blighter's an Elf,” Julian burst out, sounding decidedly Colonel Blimp-ish. “I mean, they wear their hair long, for goodness sake. Not at all the sort of chap one would want to introduce to one's sister.”

“Quite so, Julian dearest,” said Lucinda, then turned to Charlize. She held out her left hand, and Charlize saw that on her ring finger she sported a ring with a diamond the size of a duck-egg. “It's not like there's no opportunity for romance here. I'm engaged to a rather dashing orc captain, well, dashing once you've got past the yellow teeth and fangs. From absolutely one of the best families in the Ephel Duath. And his mater's a dear. We're planning a spring wedding. And he's got a brother... I could introduce you at the next dance.”

“OMG,” muttered Charlize. She decided the only way out was to resort to the tried and trusted technique she used when she'd forgotten her homework. She held her breath till she fainted.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Charlize told me later that the smelling salts the instructor used to bring her round were the best thing she'd ever smelled.


	4. Speed Dating

**Disclaimer: Still don't own LOTR. Nor _The Magician's Nephew._ Nor any of the films or TV shows I'm borrowing bits of...**

**OK, heads down, pens and paper at the ready, fingers on buzzers, it's competition time... Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to identify the films/TV series in this chapter. They all feature cast members from LOTR. Answers in a review, please. In the time honoured fanfic tradition, virtual black pudding and eccles cakes dipped in black treacle for the successful entries. Bonus points if you spot the film in which Peter Jackson puts in a cameo as the village drunk!**

Charlize had the idea on one of her endless shopping trips. We were looking at cheap costume jewellery in Boots and she suddenly pounced on some rings, with cheap paste stones made of some sort of plastic resin. 

“Green for out, yellow for in,” she announced, triumphantly. 

“What?” I asked, rather lamely. 

“The green rings take us to the wood-between-worlds, then I use the yellow ones to jump into pools till I find the pool that leads me to Middle Earth.” 

“Oh, yes, obviously. When you put it like that I can't possibly imagine why I didn't see it before.” 

She borrowed a fiver off me and bought the rings, then we retired to a quiet corner of the local park. Carefully, we put the green rings on. Suddenly I was aware of a tugging sensation. The world dissolved into coloured patterns which swirled round our heads. I found myself being dragged upwards through the swirls, then through darkened space studded by stars. Suddenly light appeared above my head, dappled, the way light looks as it falls through the surface of a swimming pool when you're swimming under water. Then, in less time than it took me to register this underwater feeling, we broke the surface and found ourselves in a silent wood, with tall trees with trunks set in green turf, and, between the trees, stretching into the distance, occasional pools of water like the one we'd just emerged from. 

“Blimey, it worked,” I said. 

Charlize simply gave me a killer look. “Of course. Did you think I was faking it about the dwarves, or the Medieval village? Or the Nazgûl?” The thought had, of course, crossed my mind, but I realised admitting to it would be a really bad idea. 

“You wait here,” Charlize continued. “That way we know which pool to jump back into. I'll explore each of the others in turn.” She strode off to the nearest one, and, slipping the yellow ring on, jumped in. 

****

~o~O~o~

_1\. The Red Queen_

Charlize found herself in a bright room, sunlight streaming through little diamond shaped panes of glass in the windows. The room itself was not unlike the rooms she'd seen on the school trip to Bramall Hall, with walls of white plaster panels between dark oak beams and uprights. She glanced down at herself, and was delighted to see that she was wearing a gorgeously embroidered silk dress. Rich panels of brocade down the front of the bodice gave way to a wide, gathered skirt which swished elegantly round her legs. _This is more like it_ , she thought. A slight noise behind her caused her to turn.

There, on the other side of the room, was Galadriel. But everything about her appearance (save for those incredible eyes) seemed wrong. Her hair wasn't flowing and golden. It was set in tight red curls about her head. She wore a lace cap on top of her head. Her dress wasn't flowing and elegant. It had a fitted bodice, wide gathered skirt and big puffed sleeves, all very elaborately embroidered, and a lace ruff round the neck line. Charlize's inspection was interrupted by an imperious voice.

“Don't just stand there gawping, girl. Show the French ambassador in.”

Charlize hustled over to the door and opened it. In came a tall, dark-haired man. He was strangely familiar, with a prominent nose, strong jaw, melting brown eyes and a very athletic build. Charlize ushered him into the room, her mind frantically trying to place him. Then it came to her. He was the man out of one of the pictures on the wall of her dad's games room at home. “A captain of men”. The words from _Lord of the Rings_ rattled around her head. “Faramir,” some part of her mind chipped in rather unhelpfully, because it clearly wasn't him. This man, on the other hand ... he'd been famous a decade or so earlier... Yes, definitely a captain of men, specifically, the captain of the eleven men that constituted Manchester United. What the heck was his name?

The man swept a deep bow. “Your Majesty,” he said, in a thick French accent. Everything clicked into place. That old supporters' chant from the terraces. Without meaning to, Charlize uttered her thoughts aloud.

“Ooh, Ah, Cantona...”

“What did you just say, girl?” asked the Queen.

“Oops, wrong film,” said Charlize, and slipped the green ring back onto her finger.

~o~O~o~

I had almost nodded off when suddenly I became aware of a stirring in the pool a few feet away from my resting place. Charlize stepped from the water onto the smooth green turf and made her way between the tree trunks to where I lay. She sat down and told me about what had happened. First, though, she had to remind me of why we were here at all; the wood seemed to have a strangely soporific effect, and a little time spent there seemed to make one forget why one was there at all.

She told me about her encounter with the red-haired Galadriel, and Captain Cantona. The story seemed vaguely familiar, but the sleepy atmosphere meant that somehow I couldn't grasp hold of the relevant memory. The atmosphere seemed to be getting to Charlize too. As she told the story, her speech got slower and slower, and she started to repeat things she had already said, then forget details of the story. She had almost drifted off to sleep when I reminded her why were here.

“Aren't you going to have another go at finding Legolas?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, in a slightly absent tone of voice, then gave her head a shake. “What do you mean, 'another go'?” she added.

“Well, you've just been into one world, but it turned out to be the wrong one...”

“Did I? Was it? I suppose you must be right. Okay, let me try the pool over there.”

And with that she wandered across the turf, popped on her yellow ring, and jumped into another pool.

~o~O~o~

_2\. Shaken, not stirred_

This time, Charlize landed in an ungainly heap on the floor. The floor was swaying rather violently. _An earthquake?_ she asked herself, alarmed by the prospect. Then she looked up. Scenery flashed past the windows, and she realised she was in a moving train. At the far end of the carriage, a dark haired man was tied to a chair. Despite the ropes holding him in place, he somehow exuded an air of casual menace and dangerous attractiveness.

“But who's this?” came an incredibly posh voice from behind her. She turned, half expecting to see Julian the Deputy Nazgûl again. But it was Boromir! A clean-shaven, much younger Boromir. A very, very hot Boromir. He stepped towards her, and pulled her to her feet, before kissing her savagely. Charlize tried to push him off, thoughts swirling round. _This isn't meant to be happening: he's not Legolas. Mmm, not bad, though._ Breaking the kiss, he pushed her roughly back to the floor.

“She tastes of strawberries, James,” Boromir said.

“Wrong film,” muttered Charlize, and slipped the ring back on.

~o~O~o~

This time, I really was asleep. Charlize had to shake me to wake me up. She filled me in on the details of her encounter with Boromir, once more seemingly forgetting the story almost as fast as she told it to me. Again, I reminded her why we were here (it took quite a lot of mental effort on my part to remember this – I seemed to be on the brink of forgetting everything too), then she found yet another pool to explore.

~o~O~o~

_3\. Ooo Rah, Master Chief!_

Charlize found herself lying in mud, surrounded by a group of mostly men and one woman, though it took a couple of looks to make sure of this, since the woman sported combat fatigues and a buzz cut. It was like the PE lesson from her worst nightmare – a man with a gun standing over them, forcing them to do press ups and sit ups by the hundred. She glanced around looking desperately for help. And then found it – her eyes settled on Aragorn. He was dressed strangely, in fatigues, and his hair was short. He was clean-shaven, except for a neatly trimmed moustche. But it was still unmistakably Aragorn. She started to speak, when his voice cut her off.

“Pain is your friend. It will keep you awake. It will tell you when you're hurt. It will bring you home safely. But do you know the best thing about pain?”

“SIR, NO SIR,” yelled the mud-splattered people around her. What was this? Some sort of masochists' summer camp? She didn't know how they could find the breath to yell that loud. After the exercise, she could barely speak. But Aragorn supplied the answer.

“It tells you you're still alive.”

Charlize struggled to do another press up. Half way through, she felt a boot in the small of her back, and looked up to see Aragorn staring down at her. He held her gaze for a moment, then addressed the troops again.

“You may have noticed a bell on the west edge of this training ground. At any time, if you feel you cannot take this, that bell is your salvation. Go to it, ring it three times, and you will be out of here.”

The woman with the buzz cut spoke in a firm, determined voice. “Sir, I can handle this, Master Chief, Sir.”

“Well, I can't, and I don't want to either,” Charlize burst out, then staggered over to the bell and hit it sharply three times.

~o~O~o~

_4\. Take the Blue Pill_

Her next foray into a new pool led to an even stranger place. She landed with a bump amid some rubbish bags next a dumpster, in a squalid alley. Some sort of urban nightmare landscape surrounded her.

A running figure emerged from the shadows at the end of the alley. A tall, slender woman with slicked-back short dark hair and a knee length leather trenchcoat sprinted past, knocking Charlize out of the way. She ran at the most ridiculous speed, with jerky movements. It was like watching a speeded up film. Suddenly, from the shadows, two men appeared, also moving ridiculously fast. It was almost as if they'd materialized from nowhere. They wore dark glasses and dark suits. But the mouth and jawline of the one in the lead was unmistakable.

“Elrond?” said Charlize. 

The men ignored her for the moment. Their attention was focused on the woman, who dived into a phone booth at the end of the alley. Picked up the receiver. And disappeared. Charlize's mouth dropped open. Agent Elrond turned to Charlize. His face was grim and threatening. And the tops of his ears were definitely not pointed.

“Oops, wrong movie,” said Charlize, slipping on the green ring once more.

~o~O~o~

_5\. Steal from the Rich_

This counted as a near-miss, surely. She was in the wrong movie, but at least it was _The Hobbit_ , so she could take comfort from the fact that she was in Middle Earth, albeit 50 years or so too early. Not that this would be a problem if she was an Elf. She'd have all eternity to find Legolas. She looked over at the male figure looming out of the shadows towards her. Thorin Oakenshield! Except that this Thorin Oakenshield didn't have a beard. A faint hint of rather sexy stubble, but definitely no beard. And he was normal, human height. (Either that, or she'd turned back into a blooming dwarf again.) And he looked incredibly good in a tight black leather tunic and trousers. (Okay, if he looked that good, she could live with being a dwarf, so long as she was a pretty one). He towered over her, forbiddingly.

“So, a wench wearing leggings This can mean only one thing. You are one of Robin of Locksley's outlaws.” He grasped her chin in an iron fist, and turned her face up so she looked straight into his eyes. “Tell, me, where is Robin's encampment?” He held a dagger against the side of her neck, the point almost breaking the skin. This guy wasn't messing around. To heck with how hot he was, it was time to make a quick exit.

“Mumfle,” said Charlize, whose jaw couldn't move in Not-Quite-Thorin's grasp. She slipped the ring back on...

~o~O~o~

_6\. Love amidst the corpses_

Only to find herself in a morgue. Surrounded by corpses. Eurgh. And the one she was looking at certainly hadn't died of natural causes. She heard footsteps and ducked rapidly behind a cupboard. Then the sound of another corpse being placed on one of the empty mortuary slabs. A woman's voice cut the silence.

“Set down, set down your honourable load,  
If honour may be shrouded in a hearse,  
Whilst I a while obsequiously lament,  
Th'untimely fall of virtuous Lancaster.”

Good grief! The woman sounded like she'd escaped from a really dull English lesson. She continued in a similar vein for quite a while. Charlize struggled to follow what she was saying, but managed to get her head round the idea that this was a dead king, and that the woman was the widow of the king's son (apparently the body on the other slab), and they'd both been murdered by the same person. _Harsh,_ Charlize thought to herself. Then suddenly she heard footsteps, then a new voice. The voice was unmistakable. It was Gandalf, of all people, also speaking as though he'd escaped from the same really dull English lesson.

“Sweet saint, for charity, be not so cursed.”

“Foul devil, for God's sake hence and trouble us not,” the woman replied angrily, and launched into a long, complicated speech, the gist of which was that Gandalf had killed both her husband and her father in law. Eventually she made the accusation point blank: “Didst thou not kill this king?”

“I grant ye,” Gandalf answered. Charlize's mind was in a whirl. Okay, she might have got this wrong, because the language was a real struggle, but Gandalf seemed to have just admitted that he had killed both of them. Surely Gandalf didn't just go around murdering people. Had they deserved it? Did this mean the woman was a bad guy? Was she maybe a spy of Saruman's, like Wormtongue had been? What was going on? She sounded so sincere though. The argument was really heating up now, and even Charlize had to admit that the language, though complicated, had a certain something. 

Charlize peeked round the cupboard. The woman wore a 1930s style coat, with a fur collar. Gandalf looked quite different too – his hair was short, and slicked back, he had no beard, only a pencil moustache, and he wore a military great coat and carried himself with a swagger. What was it with all the moustaches? Why did men grow such unattractive facial fungus? Charlize dragged her mind back from this digression and tried to pay attention to their words again.

“Then God grant me, too,  
Thou mayst be damnèd for that wicked deed.  
O he was gentle, mild, and virtuous,” the woman said, sounding anguished

“The better for the King of Heaven that hath him,” Gandalf replied, his voice smooth and suave.

“He is in heaven, where thou shalt never come,” she said. Gandalf actually had the cheek to reply that then the dead man ought to thank him for having sent him to heaven. Charlize was shocked. This wasn't the friendly, avuncular wizard she was used to. He was a complete slimeball. The woman seemed to agree. She continued, the embodiment of cold, focussed fury, “And thou unfit for any place but hell.”

Gandalf's voice dropped to a soft, caressing whisper, and said, “Yes, one place else, if you will hear me name it.”

“Some dungeon,” the woman replied sharply.

“Your bedchamber,” Gandalf murmured. 

_Yuck, he's coming onto her. Over her dead husband's body. The dead husband he killed. What the heck is this? Whoever wrote this movie script was one sick so-and-so_ , Charlize thought. She listened uncomfortably as Gandalf's seduction continued. To her utter horror, it seemed to be succeeding. Eventually the woman left. Gandalf stayed, apparently talking to himself.

“Was ever woman in this humour wooed? Was ever woman in this humour won?” he said smugly.

_Okay, make that one extremely sick so-and-so,_ Charlize amended, mentally. She shuffled uncomfortably and knocked the cupboard. A metal implement fell from the top and clattered to the ground. Gandalf whirled round to look at her. The look in his eyes scared her even more than Not-Quite-Thorin's dagger had.

“Oops, gotta go,” said Charlize.

~o~O~o~

_7\. Peace Lily_

Out of the autopsy suite, into the crime scene would have described things perfectly, were it not for the tricks Charlize's memory was playing on her. She was in a small suburban living room, surrounded by people in white paper suits and hoods, with masks on. A man with short, red hair, wearing police uniform walked into the room, and made his way up to one of the people in the suits.

The man took a deep breath, as though psyching himself up for a difficult situation. “I have something important to tell you and I didn't wanna do it over the phone. Janine, I've been transferred. I'm moving away for a while.”

“I'm not Janine,” said a male voice from within the paper suit. The policeman, sorry, police officer, looked embarrassed, then went over to the other paper-suited figure. Charlize looked at the figure's face (at least the part that was visible above the mask). Those eyes! Incredible, beautiful, almond shaped, ageless blue eyes. Absolutely unmistakeable. It was Galadriel again. Galadriel the crime scene technician. How the heck could the guy with the red hair have been so dense as to mistake her for someone else? Specially when the someone else was a bloke.

“Janine,” said Dense Guy, “I've been transferred. I'm moving away for a while.” 

“I know. Bob told me.”

The row unfolded as Charlize listened. Dense Guy eventually came up with the totally clichéd line “It's not that long ago we were talking about getting married.”

“Yes, but you were already married to the force, weren't you?” said Galadriel. Charlize nearly snorted at this; it sounded exactly like the sort of dialogue from the daytime soaps her mum listened to. Dense Guy was such a dork, Charlize thought to herself. If Galadriel's next words were anything to go about, the Lady of the Golden Wood thought so too. She claimed that his job was all he cared about. Dense Guy whined that this wasn't true, there were other things in his life besides the job.

“No, you're right, you do have that rubber plant,” Galadriel said.

“It's a Japanese Peace Lily,” he whinged. Charlize could stand it no longer.

“For heavens sake, Galadriel, this guy is a complete loser.” (She made “loser” stretch out in a sing-song voice.) “Go back to Celeborn. Please. Don't waste any more time on bad romance, day-time TV-stylee.”

The last thing she saw as she slipped the ring on was Dense Guy bridling with indignation.

~o~O~o~

_8\. All at Sea._

Finally she'd done it. She couldn't mistake those finely chiselled cheek bones and that jaw line anywhere. The ground was rocking alarmingly once more, and she realised she was on a moving ship, a sailing ship. Perhaps they were already on their way to Valinor. That would be quite convenient; cut out all the dull battle stuff and cut straight to the happily-ever-after bit.

Charlize wasn't the best of sailors, but what the heck. Her dream Elf was within sight. However, something wasn't quite right. His hair was dark brown and curly, and, as he finally turned and met her gaze, she realised his eyes were brown. The brown eyes could perhaps be put down to passion. After all, she remembered from the films that they did sometimes change colour at moments of heightened emotion. When she hit the pause button on that deliciously coy sideways glance during Aragorn's coronation, for instance, they were definitely brown. But the hair! What had become of those fabulous blonde locks, the silky hair that looked like it would flow through her fingers like spring water.

“And who might you be?” said a woman's voice from behind her. Charlize turned to see a very beautiful, gamine-featured young woman, in a man's shirt and breeches, wearing high sea boots and brandishing a fearsome sword. More to the point, in between glaring at Charlize, she was giving some very possessive glances in Brunette-Leggy's direction. Sword or no, that aroused Charlize's ire.

“I might ask the same of you,” she said.

“Elizabeth Swann, captain of this ship,” said the woman. “And I think I've had quite enough of you eyeing up my Will.” With that, she bundled Charlize over the side of the ship into the water.

 

**Next: Someone may, possibly, get a snog from Leggy. But it might not be Charlize. Mwah ha ha.**


	5. Someone meets Legolas

**Chapter 5: In which someone finally manages to meet Legolas.**

**Usual disclaimer. Not mine, not profiting from this in any way. And apologies to Ricky Gervais for stealing (oops, I mean, paying an homage to) an idea of his!**

**I have to confess that this idea is largely stolen from somewhere else (in part Orlando Bloom's magnificent piece of self-satire in Extras). As my comic hero Tom Lehrer put it: 'Plagiarize, let no-one else's work evade your eyes, that's why the good lord made your eyes, so don't shade your eyes, but plagiarize, plagiarize, plagiarize … (only remember, please, always to call it “research”).' [The Lobachevsky Song – a joke about plagiarism that works on so many levels I can only suggest you google it to find out more].**

Squelch, squelch, squelch. That's the noise my feet were making. Charlize and I were making our way across Saddleworth Moor, in the sort of rain that only the Pennines can supply. I know, I know, Charlize staggering across peat hags in the middle of a bleak stretch of moorland in the middle of nowhere. You are way ahead of me. This expedition was, of course, driven entirely by Charlize's Lord of the Rings obsession. The idea this time was for Charlize to wander around the bleak moorland until she emerged in Hollin/ Eriador/ whatever it's called towards the beginning of the fellowship's road trip. I was more worried about this than I had been about any madcap scheme so far. Charlize was certain at some point to try to lose me; she wasn't going to want me cramping her style with golden boy. And getting lost on Saddleworth Moor was not a good idea by any stretch of the imagination. Specially not in weather this bad.

Typically, it didn't take long before Charlize managed to slide off down a peat hag out of sight. I set off at a slightly lumbering run. (Yes, I had the rucksack. Again.) I crested the top of the hummock, lost my footing, and slid on my bum down the coal-black slimy peat slope, hitting into my friend's legs as I came to a halt in an ungainly heap at the lowest point.

“Charlize. You mustn't try to lose me in this country. You can't read a map, you haven't got the pack with the spare food and extra clothes, it could be really dangerous.” This time I was really feeling quite cross.

“Who on earth is 'Charlize' and more to the point, who are you?” said a puzzled voice. It added, “And have you really got some spare food in that pack?” I looked up. Not very far up. The person addressing me was on the short side, with unmistakeably furry feet.

“Oh, no, this really is not meant to happen this way,” I mumbled, as a very much taller man strode over and hauled me to my feet by the collar of my fleece. I was frog-marched unceremoniously over to the nearby group, and deposited on the ground at the foot of Gandalf.

I don't think I really need to fill you in on the next bit. The usual stuff – who was I, what was I doing here, how did I come to know their names, was I in league with Sauron/ Saruman/ any randomly chosen baddie with a name beginning with 'S', was I going to alter the course of history inadvertently? Some of the fellowship were of course happy to take me at face value, others were convinced I was a spy. You've all read so many of these 10th Walker fics that you can fill in the details yourself. Except that some of the details differed subtly from the usual fanfic conventions.

For a start, it was Aragorn who had unceremoniously dragged me over and dumped me by Gandalf's feet, and was now petulantly stomping his foot declaring that I was a spy, and he was going to keep saying so no matter what the majority voted. And that I was a girl, and girls were, well, girly. (Great, the heir of Elendil, soon to become King of Gondor and most powerful man in Middle Earth and he doesn't know what a tautology is).

Boromir, meanwhile, was trying to calm things down, generally being pretty nice, and taking issue with Aragorn over the girly comments.

“You can't say that, Strider. Girls can do all sorts of stuff. Last time I went to Rohan I met this really cool girl who knocked the stuffing out of me sparring on the training grounds, then beat me hands down in every contest of horsemanship we tried. I had a go at chatting her up, but she told me she preferred her men more intellectual. Just my luck – the most fabulous woman ever, and the first one who's ever likely to prefer my little brother, swotty little runt that he is.” But it was obvious from his affectionate chuckle that he was actually quite fond of the 'swotty little runt'.

As for the others, the hobbits were as you'd expect, short and furry-footed. Gandalf was as filled with gravitas as you'd expect. In fact, any more gravitas, and you'd have needed a special overflowing-gravitas-mopping-up-device. Legolas of course was the archetypical pretty boy, and stood there gazing meaningfully into the distance, looking soulful and chisel-jawed. The only other surprise was Gimli. Actually, thinking about it, perhaps he shouldn't have been. After all, in the book, he's a young-ish dwarf. And this Gimli looked nothing like the turnip-featured, heavily bearded dwarf from Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings. On the contrary, he bore more than a passing resemblance to Fili (or was it Kili? - the dark haired one, at any rate). 

Council of war (or council of unexpected arrival of girly girl) over, Sam set to cooking supper, and everyone sat around not doing much, except of course for Legolas who was doing the communing-with-nature-staring-moodily-into-the-distance thing yet again. Of course, suddenly the inevitable happened. Someone (I didn't pick up who in the confusion) said something about a black cloud, Legolas shouted “Crebain from Dunland” and suddenly I found myself thrown under a nearby bush. 

“What the heck are you doing here, beardy-weirdy?” said Legolas to Boromir, who'd come to rest with a thump in between the two of us.

“Chaperoning Lady Sophie. Eru knows she's going to need it with you around,” Boromir grunted.

“Oh come on, like she's going to be able to resist this face,” said Legolas, smugly. He actually ran his own hand along his jaw line, and pouted. “You know how it goes – needing my manly embrace in the terrifying darkness of Moria, those non-canon but extremely convenient hot springs in Lothlorien, a quick snog on the plains of Rohan, a stolen night in the convenient room she gets to herself in Edoras, maybe a passionate encounter in the falling rain at Helm's Deep. You know as well as I do – some time between here and Minas Tirith, she's going to fall into my lap like a ripe plum. Oh, sorry, Boromir, of course you don't – because you're not going all the way to Minas Tirith, are you?” The Elf sounded positively venomous.

“Go on, make fun of my impending death, why don't you? All in the best possible taste, because we know an Elf couldn't possibly be tasteless.”

“Hey, it's not like it matters – you only have to hang around in limbo for a few days then it all starts again with a new tenth walker fic. And maybe one time in a hundred, you get the girl. But that's okay because I get the all the impossibly beautiful ones the other ninety-nine times.”

“You mean you get the Mary Sues. At least when I get the girl, it tends to be a better class of fanfic. It may be only one time in a hundred, but you know I get the better deal.”

“In your dreams, mate, in your dreams. Anyway, Sophie, how about it? Get to know the real me, the genuinely irresistible Elf underneath the surface veneer of irresistible Elvishness? Go on, let me kiss you.”

“Uh, no thanks, if it's all the same to you. I think I'd sooner kiss a wookie, um, I mean a dwarf.”

“Don't blame you. If this was a slash fic, I'd take Gimli over Leggy any time,” chipped in Boromir.

“Shut it, Mr. I-can't-resist-the-evil-lure-of-the-ring,” said Legolas, viciously. Boromir looked genuinely hurt by this. 

Legolas turned back to me. “Come on, just one kiss, let me show you how I do it.”

“Really, thanks but no thanks.”

“Oh, I see, it's going to be one of those fics. The 'I hate Legolas' fics. Trust me, 5 chapters in, you'll be showing the first signs of weakness, passionate snog by chapter 8, elaborate wedding chapters 37 to 56, happily ever after by chapter 83. Come on, let's leave the boring stuff out and just cut straight to the action.” 

To my horror, Legolas climbed over Boromir and made a grab for me. Before I knew what was happening, he was slobbering all over me. It was a re-run of the kitchen scene from Charlize's last birthday, only with Legolas instead of Colin Postlethwaite from year 10. But the kissing technique was every bit as bad. It was like kissing my mum's washing machine on the extra-agitation, extra-water cycle she uses to deal with my brother's muddy football kit. No finesse at all, just a lot of saliva, and a tongue strangely reminiscent of the lifeless ones on the butcher's counter at Morrison's when my mum does the weekly shop. I punched him in the nose, hard.

“You've broke by dose, you ...”

“Language, elf-boy,” said Boromir.

I decided it was time to try the 'holding-my-breath-till-I-faint' technique Charlize uses so well.

Answers to the film competition.  
 _The Red Queen:_ Cate Blanchett in the title role of _Elizabeth._  
 _Shaken, not stirred:_ Sean Bean as the traitorous 006 in _Goldeneye._  
 _Ooo, Rah, Master Chief:_ Viggo Mortensen as Master Chief John Urgayle in _GI Jane._  
 _Take the Blue Pill:_ Hugo Weaving as Agent Smith in _The Matrix._  
 _Steal from the Rich:_ Richard Armitage as Guy of Gisbourne in _Robin Hood._ (BBC TV series, rather than film, but I'm led to believe it has been widely shown in other countries).  
 _Love amid the corpses:_ Sir Ian McKellen in the title role of _Richard III._  
 _Peace Lily:_ Cate Blanchett again, this time in _Hot Fuzz_ (a tricky one, as she's not in the credits, nor is Peter Jackson who puts in a quick cameo as the homicidal Santa impersonator who stabs Simon Pegg's character in the opening scene – bonus points if you mentioned Jackson).  
 _All at Sea:_ Finally! Orlando Bloom in _Pirates of the Caribbean N,_ where N is an integer between 1 and 4. Take your pick as to which one, they're pretty much interchangeable after the first one. Actually, that's not quite accurate, 1 is great fun, 2 is a remake of 1, and 3 and 4 are just irredeemably awful.


	6. Bridezilla

**Thanks to Lady Peter for the wonderful idea that there is a circle of Danté's inferno reserved for writers of smutty fanfiction.**

**Okay, grovelling apologies for the long gap between chapters. Sophie is going to explain to you.**

 

I don't know if you remember my feelings about the Trafford Centre. Actually, chances are you don't, since my author has been ignoring me while she obsessively writes romantic drivel (to put it politely) featuring Éowyn and Faramir, so we've had rather a long gap between updates. Though the break's actually been quite pleasant. I've been in limbo with Boromir, who is really interesting to talk to. (And for the record, there is nothing going on there. He is 45. I am 15. That would just be totally sick and wrong. Almost as sick and wrong as 2000 give-or-take and 15, not that Charlize will accept this. So definitely no romantic stuff. But Boromir has been teaching me how to use a sword which might be quite useful if I ever end up back in Middle Earth. But I digress.) Fortunately, my author's muse has currently hit the doldrums with the Farawyn/however-you-want-to-describe-the-pairing slush, so I, Sophie Hellman, am back. 

To recap: The Trafford Centre – I'd sooner have my wisdom teeth out without anaesthetic. But Charlize had added a new and particularly sadistic twist to the experience. We are window shopping in bridal shops. So, on with the story...

Things had been distinctly awkward since our trip to Saddleworth Moor. Charlize had her suspicions about my trip to Middle Earth. I'd fed her a non-committal story about landing up somewhere similar to the unsuccessful Bruinduin trip, but I don't think she was buying it. She knew I was hiding something. She didn't know the half of it. No way was I telling her I'd snogged (or more accurately, been snogged by) her favourite Elven Prince. Though sometimes the temptation to tell her just how rubbish he was at it became almost irresistible. As a sort of peace offering, I'd rather reluctantly gone along with this trip to one of the innermost circles of Danté's Inferno (otherwise known as the Trafford Centre – it's just inside the circle to which writers of smutty fanfic get consigned). Charlize was eyeing up the window display of frothy white and ivory polyester.

“I don't want it to be, you know, a meringue,” Charlize said. “I'm thinking more tasteful. Floaty and figure hugging, but with a bit of swish to the skirt. But I can't decide between strapless or the Kate look – those lace sleeves were lovely.”

“Difficult,” I said, thinking Kill me now.

“Then there's shoes – heels so I'm almost as tall as him, and can compete with those graceful elleths? Or should I go for ballet flats so I can dance?”

“Mmm, which do you think would be more you?” The trick to this, I thought, was surely to keep making non-committal but vaguely supportive comments. It turned out I was wrong.

“You're useless. You're just not trying. I brought you along so you could have some input. But you're just leaving it all to me.” Charlize shoved the shopping bags into my arms, and, as I stood there like a lemon trying not to drop them, flounced off round the corner. By the time I'd got the bags secured and followed her, she'd disappeared. Not just into a shop – it turned out that the corner led to a service corridor, with no shops, no doors except for a key-pad controlled one at the far end (which I presumed she hadn't got the code for). But there was no sign of Charlize.

“Oh no, not again.”

~o~O~o~

“Wake up, girl, it's time to start work for the day.” Charlize woke to a hand gently shaking her shoulder. A woman, no, an elleth, with long blonde hair was standing beside the narrow bed. She held out a long flowing dress. _Things are finally looking up_ , Charlize thought. The elleth helped her slip the dress over her head, then laced the back. Charlize reached up to brush her hair from her face, and suddenly her breath stopped with surprise. Her hand met an unquestionably pointed tip to her ear. She was an elleth too. She felt like running round the room punching the air, but then realised this was not in keeping with her new found role as immortal, ethereal beauty. But something wasn't quite right – what was it the other elleth had said to her?

“Work?” she asked, in a puzzled tone.

“Why, yes, sewing, my girl.”

“Why do you keep calling me 'girl'? We are both of the...” Charlize paused while she searched for the right word. Oh yes, “Eldar.”

“But you are a mere hundred years old, not due to come of age for at least another thirty summers. And besides, your lowly station in life means you must work for a living, as must I. I realise it was late when you were brought here last night, but we do not get much time to rest. I am Krystal, by the way.”

To give her her due, even Charlize realised 'Krystal' was a pretty strange name for an elf. She decided to find out more about this place.

“Where am I? I don't know how I got here. My thoughts and memories are confused. Perhaps I am really high born, but have suffered an unfortunate head injury which has left me with no recollection of my former life. I will have to work as a humble seamstress until Prince Legolas happens upon me and realises that I am the elleth who saved his life in battle, before being hit over the head and kidnapped by slavers.” Charlize delivered this speech in what she hoped was an up-beat tone of voice. To her dismay, Krystal laughed out loud at this.

“What an imagination you young things have. Still, if it keeps you from feeling too sad about your true story, by all means choose to live in a dream world.”

“So what is my true story?” asked Charlize.

“Alas, all too common. Cruelly neglected by your parents who did not understand your emo nature,” (Charlize twitched at this point: 'emo' – was she actually in Tolkien's world or in someone else's fanfic?), “abused by your teachers, you fled into the wilderness, only to be taken into Thranduil's court. Alas, he, having lost his beloved wife to NSEDD, pays not enough attention to his court, and so we poor elleths of humble birth find ourselves more-or-less enslaved by the evil Lady of the Garderobe.”

“Okay... Let's take this one thing at a time. NSEDD?” asked Charlize.

“Non-Specific Elleth Dysfunctional Disorder,” said Krystal. “The elleth fades, often as a result of lost love, but sometimes for no reason in particular except vague discontent. The result is death, or a one-way ticket out West.”

Charlize frowned: 'one-way ticket out West.' The author of this fic really didn't care about the sentencing guidelines for crimes against the English language. She decided to move on to the next part of Krystal's speech.

“And the Lady of the Garderobe?”

“Our brutal overseer. And best friend of the Lady Suelennielwenweth, fiancée of Prince Legolas.”

“Whoa, wait a moment – Prince Legolas has a fiancée?”

“Yes, she is beautiful beyond compare, with lavender eyes, golden hair, skin like peaches...”

“Yes, I get the picture,” growled Charlize. “I suppose there's no chance she has a particularly luxuriant beard?”

“Beard? Good heavens, girl, those years of neglect and abuse must have addled your brain.”

Krystal led Charlize into a large chamber full of slightly scared looking elleths. It was hard to tell, but something about their naïve air made Charlize think that they, like her, were elven adolescents. Krystal guided her to a table where three other girls sat, unpicking rubies from a length of silk and replacing them with diamonds, using incredibly tiny stitches. One rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand and heaved a huge sigh. Then, to Charlize's amazement, the three began to talk in a broad West Yorkshire accent.

“I've been doing this by candlelight since three in the morning.”

“Candlelight? You were lucky. I had to work by the light of my pet glow worm.”

“Pet glow worm. Huh, some people have all the luck. I have to use wild, untamed glow worms, they won't stay still for more than two stitches at the time. And I started at two in the morning.”

“Two, pah, I'm working twenty-five hour days. Then I go home and sleep in a cardboard box. And they don't have cardboard boxes in Middle Earth, so that means I get no sleep at all.”

“And you tell that to the elleths nowadays and they doan't believe you.”

Shaking her head in disbelief, Charlize sat down at the table and started to unpick rubies and replace them with diamonds. After a couple of hours of this activity, her fingers were stiff with the effort of holding the tiny needle, and her vision was beginning to go blurry. Suddenly their activity was interrupted by a tall, imposing Elf woman, followed by a staggeringly beautiful elleth, who did indeed have curiously artificial looking lavender eyes and gold hair.

“NO!” screeched Suelennielwenweth. “Sapphires. Sapphires! SAPPHIRES! From the moment my lavender orbs met his midnight blue orbs, I knew we were meant for each other. So they have to be lavender diamonds to match my lavender orbs, and sapphires to match his midnight blue orbs.”

“'Orbs'? What the...?” said Charlize.

“For some reason we've never worked out,” said Krystal, “she never says 'eyes', she only ever says 'orbs'.”

“Eww, it makes me think of a glass-eye factory.”

~o~O~o~

Charlize came back from this experience in a somewhat sombre mood. At first I assumed it was a short term thing, then I put it down to to exam nerves (we were in the middle of our GCSEs), but when the exams were over, she was still not back to her usual flighty self. One evening we were sitting on the swings in the local park, idly pushing ourselves to and fro.

“I can't get Suelennielwenweth the Bridezilla out of my mind. That was nearly me. But not in a good way. What should I do? I feel like such a bloody idiot. I kept on coming up with these really cheesy plot lines for Legomances, so it's hardly surprising they all went horribly wrong. But, I know it sounds really stupid, I still really want to meet Legolas...”

“Are you sure it's such a good idea,” I said. “After all, what if he turns out not to be such a nice guy. Maybe he might be a total git – for all you know, he and Suelennielwenweth might deserve each other.”

“You say that like you might actually know he is,” Charlize said, her eyes narrowing with suspicion.

“Um, well, you know... That time when we went to Saddleworth Moor... I did end up in Middle Earth. Legolas turned out to be a complete tosser.”

Charlize looked into the distance. “I knew there was something you weren't telling me.” She took a deep breath. “Was he any good?”

“What?”

“You know what I mean.”

“He was rubbish at snogging.”

“You're just trying to make me feel better”

“No, seriously. Worse than Colin Postlethwaite.” Charlize looked ready to cry. I tried to cheer her up. “But Boromir turns out to be a really nice guy. And Gimli... well, that was really unexpected. He's not old and bearded and looks like he fell out of the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down. He's really hot. He looks like Kili from the film version of the Hobbit.”

It took Charlize several days to recover from this revelation. But then she came up with a plan. We were going to spend the summer usefully. She was going to read the books. Even the Silmarillion. And we were going to get fit – running four times a week. And we were going to join the local archery club. Then she was going to write a serious fanfic (oxymoron, anyone?) so that we ended up avoiding lavender eyes and sapphire orbs. For good measure, I signed us up to a first aid course.


	7. Double Trouble

**This chapter is thanks to TommyGinger (aka “She Who is a Bad Influence”) who has pointed out that this season's must-have fanfic accessory is twins (possibly displacing lost elf-maidens of uncertain parentage, though of course, the GDIME remains that eternal classic, fanfic equivalent of the little black dress). I must confess I stole Irrumator's name (Catullus's poems), but Raphanidon is all my own creation. Be warned – any attempt to follow up on the hints on the etymology of their names will up the rating of this chapter to M (and some to spare). And you will need brain bleach. (Oh, those breakfast conversations with the Classics students at college when I was an impressionable 18 year old – they scarred me for life).**

So far, the summer holiday was going well (albeit in an exhausting sort of way). Four weeks in, and Charlize was forcing both of us to stick to our running schedule. We'd actually managed two miles without a break yesterday evening. En route, we'd passed our PE teacher, who almost had a heart attack from the shock when she recognised Charlize. 

The archery was going okay for Charlize. I was struggling. It was a while before one of the instructors worked out the problem.

“You're squinting down the arrow with your left eye,” he said.

“Yeah, and?” I asked.

“Come here...” Several minutes later of holding my index finger at arms length and squinting at things in the difference, he came up with a diagnosis.

“You're cross-lateral – you're right handed, but your dominant eye is your left one. That's going to make things very hard. Basically, we can go with the dominant eye, and teach you to shoot left handed, or we can go with your handedness, and you can learn to shoot making sure you keep both eyes open. Both approaches work, but working with your natural handedness should make shooting faster and more fluid.” I had a sudden image of orcs coming at me in a flood, and decided faster was better. 

“Let's go with right handed for the moment and see if I can concentrate on using both eyes.” 

The next few weeks showed some improvement – I started hitting the target more often than not. Charlize meanwhile was cheerfully hitting the gold more often than not. Give that girl some motivation, and it's amazing what she can achieve.

~o~O~o~

Meanwhile we were having great fun reading fanfic, the good, the bad and the ugly. Mostly the bad and the ugly.

“Get this one,” I laughed. “'Honoraria, half werewolf, half vampire, half elf...'”

“Hang on, haven't we reached one and a half people now?” asked Charlize with a grin.

“You know, your maths is really coming along... which is more than can be said for the author of this story.”

“Ooh, ooh, ooh, this looks like a good one... 'Fantasmiel, the only surviving dragon spirit in Middle Earth, sought solace in Lothlauriel...' - she can't even spell!”

I couldn't resist – I chipped in with, “Says the girl who ended up on the banks of the Bruinduin.”

“Oh shut up. I can't believe I was so daft back then. But I am taking all this much more seriously now,” said Charlize.

“In all honesty, I'm not sure whether taking it more seriously makes you come across as more or less unhinged,” I replied. I scanned down the screen of the laptop. “Oh good grief – this one's a gem – Galadriel sends Legolas to our world where he falls in love with a quantum cosmologist...” Charlize snorted as I read the plot summary.

“Hey, if Tom Cruise could fall for an astrophysicist in _Top Gun_ , I don't see why that particular plot is so stupid,” I said. I don't think either of us was convinced. After all, even Charlize had realised that the presence of an astrophysicist as instructor at a top pilots' school was a bit incomprehensible. She scrolled down the screen, then squealed with delight at the latest offering.

“Oh my, this one has a warning for an MPreg! Good heavens! It's a re-write of _Mamma Mia_ – Glorfindel isn't sure which one of Erestor, Elrond or Celeborn is the father of his teenage daughter. Who's in love with Legolas, of course. With a different Abba song in every chapter.”

~o~O~o~

To my intense embarrassment, my cousin discovered our guilty secret one day, when she was visiting. Unusual girl, my cousin Ruth – she's reading Classics at Oxford. A strangely brainy cuckoo in our very dull family nest of brown house sparrows, my dad always says. But she's very funny, and very quick on the uptake.

“Oh, let me see,” she said with a giggle. “Hang on, one of my friends wrote one of these as a revenge against the girl who stole her boyfriend...”

“What?” Charlize and I chorused.

“Yeah, this girl was really into fanfic, at least until she discovered real men – or more specifically, my mate's bloke. So by way of revenge my mate stole this girl's Mary Jane...”

“Mary Sue,” Charlize corrected.

“Whatever. And stuck her into the parody fic to end them all, complete with a couple of twin elves who'd gone over to the dark side or whatever you'd call it. Thing is, some of the real ones are so deep into unintentional self-parody a lot of her readers don't realise it's a send up. She's on 500 plus reviews already. Oh yes, here it is...”

_Death in Imladris_ , by Revenger'sTragedy. With amusement, we read the summary. “Fidrenniel is a beautiful Elleth espoused to Legolas Greenleaf [ _sic_ ]. She is captured and brutally tortured by the dark Glorfindellion brothers, guilty offspring of an Mpreg Glorfindel perpetrated on Celeborn millennia earlier. Will Legolas manage to rescue her before she is brutally ravished? Rated M for violence against the English language.”

“That's got to be the first time anyone's ever appended _sic_ to Greenleaf used as a surname,” I said. We started to read. 

“'Irrumator and Raphanidon, identical, ethereally beautiful, darkly brooding, yet exuding menace in the animalistic grace with which they moved through the wood, tracked their gloriously lovely but delicate prey with a feral single-mindedness...',” Charlize declaimed, in a theatrical voice. 

“Blimey, she wasn't kidding about 'violence against the English language,' was she?” I chipped in.

“Raphanidon sounds reasonably Elvish, but Irrumator's all wrong,” Charlize added.

Ruth grinned, and pulled a couple of dog-eared heavy black-bound volumes out of her rucksack. “Here, you have Lewis and Short, Charlize. Sophie, you've picked up enough of the Greek alphabet from actually paying attention in maths lessons – you can have Liddell and Scott.” We dutifully started to thumb through.

“Oh... my... god,” said Charlize. I looked over her shoulder and read the entry in the dictionary. Good grief, as Charlie Brown would say. I wasn't surprised her eyes had turned wide as saucers. 

“Still, you've got to admit it's neat having two, subtly different words for the activity – allows for a nice distinction between doing it voluntarily and having it forced on you...” said Ruth, peering over Sophie's head. I winced. There's grown-up stuff I still didn't want to think about, even though my 16th birthday was due in a month. I turned to my volume.

“Rho... alpha... phi... alpha... nu... iota... delta... chuffin' Norah!” I squeaked. Charlize rushed over to where I was sitting.

“What the... How? More to the point, why? Just … why?” she blurted out, looking slightly green.

Eventually I managed to speak. “Sheds a whole new light on the phrase 'the Greeks had a word for it.'”

“The best thing is the Muriels have no idea of what the names mean,” said Ruth.

“Muriels?” I asked.

“That's our name for all those girls out there writing Legomances, where they dwell on Legolas's wedding for umpteen chapters. Muriel as in _Muriel's Wedding._ ”

“Oh God, I ended up... I mean, I read one of those fics. The author never used the word eyes – it was all 'his sapphire orbs looked into her lavender orbs',” Charlize said.

“This stuff could drive a girl to drink. Much as it pains me to admit it, I think I might go and read a bit of hot Faramir and Éowyn smut to get the images out of my head,” I said.

Ruth grinned. “Me, I prefer slash – I love a nice bit of Aragorn/Faramir.”

“No, surely they wouldn't! I mean, not that there's anything wrong with being gay as such,” Charlize added hastily, “but Faramir's got Éowyn and Aragorn's got Arwen.” She sounded genuinely shocked at the idea of either honourable man of Gondor playing away from home. Then a puzzled look came over her face. “And in any case, I mean, if you're going to read smut, don't you want to identify with one half of the pairing.”

“Well,” said Ruth, with a thoughtful look, “The way I see it is this: one hot man good, two hot men, even better.”

“Okay, “ I said, with a sharp intake of breath. “I think that's quite enough along those lines for today. Gay, straight, I don't care, I just don't want to have to think about it in that much detail. I'm starting to feel like my parents' seven-year-old godson, the one who hides behind the sofa going 'eww they're kissing' whenever there's any hint of romance on telly. And I may never recover from my encounter with Liddell and Scott. I think I've just decided to read maths and become an accountant so as to ensure that I never encounter any images like that ever again.”

“Alan Turing?” said Ruth.

“What about him?” I replied.

“Gay mathematician. I'm sure if I was actually reading maths I could name a few more...”

“Yeah, but I don't have to know about the ins and outs of his sex life to appreciate his maths.”

“Ins and outs, fnarr,” muttered Ruth. 

“Okay, it'll have to be chemistry. I don't think chemists have sex, I think they reproduce by binary fission.”

~o~O~o~

Meanwhile, Charlize had been working hard on drafting her Legomance. She was taking it very seriously, actually roughing out a draft all the way to the end to make sure the plot hung together. She'd been listing plotting and characterisation mistakes. Her top entry was what she referred to as heading at high speed down a dead end. This usually happened where an author was winging it, and hadn't bothered to rough out a plot outline upfront, only to find that they'd got the plot irredeemably stalled, but couldn't back-track to the point where things had begun to go off the rails, because they'd made the mistake of posting each chapter as it was written.

Second entry was what she called painting yourself into a corner. This usually happened in excessively angsty fics, where the characters got so immersed in misery and misunderstanding of each other's motives that there was no way the author could come up with a happy ending which seemed in any way convincing. Interestingly, the best example of this we found was 'real literature'. We'd read Ivanhoe in English lessons, and come to the conclusion that the very thing that made Rebecca far and away the best character in the book – her refusal to abandon her religion in the face of threats of torture, rape and death made it impossible for Walter Scott to marry her off to the intensely devout Christian hero at the end, so he got stuck with the insipid Mary Sue instead. Much to my amusement, this seemed to have lead to the first piece of fanfic ever – we found a Victorian novelist who was so cross with Scott's ending that he wrote a sequel where the Mary Sue conveniently died, and Ivanhoe did marry Rebecca. I floated the 'first ever bit of fanfic' theory past Charlize and Ruth: Charlize (remarkably seeming to have paid attention to a school lesson for once) pointed out that Shakespeare ripped off most of his plots from elsewhere, so perhaps we could count him as an early writer of fanfic, and Ruth said she reckoned the Aeneid was just Virgil's piece of fanfic for Homer, and fanfic was therefore much, much earlier even than Shakespeare.

But Charlize seemed to have got quite immersed in the whole business. She'd read the Silmarillion, and her Lothlorien section seemed to have an interesting take on elves and the whole notion of immortality (she kept quoting Legolas's speech about the seasons passing like ripples on water when you were immortal). And she'd really thrown herself into trying to make sense of Rohan, reading books about Sutton Hoo, and Anglo-Saxon culture. She even started working her way through Beowulf, in the original, with the aid of some textbooks Ruth borrowed from a friend who'd just finished her first year of an English degree (giving the textbooks to us was apparently a reluctant alternative to the friend's preferred option of a ceremonial bonfire in the back garden to celebrate never having to struggle with Anglo-Saxon again).

“Well, I think the draft so far is pretty good,” I said.

“I hope you've noticed I haven't used the word 'orbs' other than in connection with Palantirs. And I've learned my lesson. No-one has lavender, or violet, or turquoise eyes. And my descriptions of dresses are sparing.”

“I'm impressed at your self-restraint,” I laughed.

“I've tried to make the battle scenes convincing. I've tried to stay in character with the canon characters, and make my OCs rounded and have real personalities. And neither of us has any mysterious or magical super-powers.”

“What do you mean, 'neither of us'?” I gulped.

“Didn't I tell you? You're coming too.”

“Oh, err, that's nice. Do I survive the experience?”

“Of course, you nit-wit. By the way, did I ever get round to telling you what I did to Bridezilla before I escaped from the wedding-dress elven sweat shop?” Charlize asked.

“No.”

“I taught her about an ancient tradition from my world, for impressing your groom and his family at the wedding feast, by dancing in front of them to demonstrate your virtue and fertility.”

“Uh, Charlize, exactly what did you do?”

“I taught Suelennielwenweth about twerking.”

 

**My apologies to any chemists out there. I would just like to record the fact that the only chemist I've ever dated did not show any preference for asexual reproduction. Also I hope any of you who have written vampire/ werewolf/ dragon spirit fics don't take this personally – the only fic I've explicitly sent up in an identifiable way is my own (and what's wrong with pairing Legolas off with a quantum cosmologist? She was a very nice cosmologist, and her discipline was sort of necessary for the plot. And I had to pair him off with someone, or the MPreg joke wouldn't have worked).**


	8. Mary Sue and Canon Too

**Thanks once again to my evil muse, Tommy Ginger, who wants you to know that she sees me as a toddler and her role as involving encouraging me to eat too much virtual sugar then run around with virtual scissors. _This_ is the result.**

**And a really huge thank you to Miranda Bell, for letting me borrow Hephaistion from her hilarious fic, _The Sweet, Strange Hereafter._**

**(Important disclaimer – I actually really like most of the fics I've read involving this character, partly because on the whole they attract damn good authors who can actually write really well, and tackle grown up stuff in a grown up way, but TG's hatred for said character is so visceral, but also so funny, it just sparked off an idea in my head which wouldn't go away.)**

 

This was all Charlize's fault. Most things, in fact almost all of them, that go wrong, are Charlize's fault. Admittedly this one had at least stemmed from an interesting conversation. I could hear Charlize's voice:

“It's like Tolkien wrote this blank cheque for fan girls everywhere. He gives her a date of birth, a date for her marriage, and the name of her first child. The rest is up to us. She's like the ultimate Mary Sue, only she's canon too. And boy do the Sue-thors run with that one. She gets given all sorts of unlikely plot lines and abilities. If there's something someone in Middle Earth does, she does it better in at least one fic somewhere – wields a sword better than Éowyn, shoots a bow better than Legolas, rides better than the entire population of Rohan, heals more people than Aragorn...”

And that, my fanfic friends, is how I came to be having this particular nightmare. It was one of those nightmares you know is a nightmare, and you try to will yourself to wake up from it, but try as you might you can't.

The set-up was like a John Wayne movie. Boromir and I were holed up in a log cabin somewhere on the edge of Fangorn, surrounded by a horde of attackers. Holed up with Éomer, of all people. Well, not really 'of all people'. His presence made perfect sense when you realised what, or rather, who the attacking horde was comprised of. We were surrounded by a huge, seething melée of Lothíriels. 

“I can't... I can't take any more,” whimpered Éomer. “We're never getting out of here.”

“We will, we will,” said Boromir. “Sophie, you go on point for a moment.” He turned his full attention to the wide eyed blond man in front of him. “Éomer, look at me... you expect this sort of thing when you have a kingship...”

Eomer shook his head and looked like he was about to burst into tears. “If the guys back home hear about this, I'll never get to sit on the throne again. That's if we escape at all. We're stuck here forever. Doomed. We're never getting out of here.”

Boromir pulled him into a brotherly embrace. “Sure we are. I promise you, one day all this will be just a memory. We'll be sitting on the lawn outside Edoras sipping iced tea.”

“Ow,” I yelped. “Something just sailed through the window and pinged me in the eye.” I picked the missile off the floor. “Oh my god, it's a genuine ye-olde-worlde medieval bra. You know, the sort I didn't think existed back in chapter 1 because my bloody author hadn't bothered to do her research properly [ _see author's note in chapter 2_ ].”

Éomer managed to pull himself together, and crept over to the wall beside the window, cautiously peering out from behind the gaily checked red and white curtain. (Yes, the cabin was a bit 'Calamity Jane' – my subconscious was really on a roll with this dream). We'd made some inroads into dealing with our attackers. The key seemed to be launching the antidote to their particular Mary-Sue superpower. For instance, there was a whole batch of beguilingly gamine, sparky and sassy tomboy Lothíriels. We'd dealt with them using pink glitter bombs. They'd shrivelled up under the onslaught of barbie-doll ersatz femininity. It was like colliding matter and anti-matter. Legolas's quantum-cosmologist-Sue would have been proud of us.

I'd worked out how to deal with the herb-lore/natural history buff Lothíriels. A mixture of articles from _Pub Med Sci_ on which herbal remedies had some basis in science and which relied wholly on the placebo effect, wrapped round a copy of Darwin's _Origin of the Species_ to give the missile a bit of weight, then launched from an improvised catapult, had sent them wandering off across the surrounding grassland, engrossed in their reading material.

The scariest Lothíriel (and fortunately, there was only one of her) had wandered in from another fan site entirely. Whatever dark satanic imagination had created her had decided to really emphasise her elven heritage (and go with that strange subculture in fandom which holds that all elves, not just Galadriel, are capable of telepathy). She'd called out a detailed description of how her whole family knew about her and Éomer's affair, and how he'd dishonoured her and was now honour-bound to marry her. Apparently there had been some unfortunate incident where she had communicated not just her heady rush of emotions, but the intense physical sensations which had occasioned the emotions, in one messy, ill-controlled telepathic burst to the whole of her immediate family. Well, all except her cousin, who, by a convenient coincidence, had been so distracted at precisely the same moment trying to produce similar heights of emotion and physical sensation in Éomer's sister that he hadn't noticed what Lothíriel had been up to.

“My poor cousins. Valar, a chap doesn't want to know that about his sister,” said Boromir, thinking of the unfortunate trio of Elphir, Amrothos and Erchirion.

“He certainly doesn't,” said Éomer, weighing his dagger in his hand. “Where did you say I might find this brother of yours? Ithilien, wasn't it?” he added, darkly, looking accusingly at Boromir, almost as though the elder of the two brothers were somehow complicit in the situation.

“Calm down Éomer, they're going to get married,” I said. This did not meet with approval from either of my companions.

“It's just not fair. I met her first,” growled Boromir.

“I don't care, married, not married, he's still keeping it in his trousers, she's still my little sister after all,” Éomer shouted.

“Look, Éomer, they end up having a kid. Do you think the stork brought him?” I asked angrily.

“Where my sister is concerned, yes, that's precisely what I will choose to believe.”

Meanwhile, Boromir continued to whinge quietly. “Not fair, not fair...”

“BOTH OF YOU, JUST GET A GRIP,” I yelled. “While you two are getting all upset about Faramir and Éowyn, the Lothíriel from hell, yes, she of the mind-meld that lets her rellies know things no-one in their right mind wants to know, that Lothíriel, is getting closer and closer to this cabin. And she appears to be glowing with telepathic energy...”

“Well, what the hell do you suggest we do about it?” said Boromir, testily.

“Hold hands and repeat after me...” So we did, and stood in a circle chanting “I DON'T BELIEVE IN FAIRIES...” Gradually, the Lothíriel's glow faded, then she herself faded and disappeared with a faint pop. There was a brief accompanying sound, as if from a ticking alarm clock, then that too faded. 

So, tomboys, natural historians and the telepathic exhibitionist Lothíriel all dealt with, we assessed what was left of our opponents. Some were mounted on horseback, though a few of those had come under the heading of gamine-tomboy and been dealt with by the glitter bomb. Others wore the familiar, nun-like garb of assistants in the Houses of Healing in Minas Tirith (“I think I snogged that one in a cupboard,” said Éomer, unhelpfully. “Actually, that one too – sluice room.”) Some were dressed as ragamuffins (the ones who were going for the 'mistaken identity, I'm not going to admit I'm the Princess of Dol Amroth' plot line). Several (the 'I don't want an arranged marriage and will go to any lengths to put him off' faction) were dressed in ridiculous frilly dresses in garish colours. One (who had been stolen from the bosom of her family at an early age by corsairs and trained as an assassin) was decked out as a Haradrim dancing girl. I got the distinct, and worrying, feeling that Éomer actually quite liked that one.

Then things got really weird. A second Haradrim dancing girl, in baggy harem pants, with vivid blue, kohl-lined eyes peeping from over the veil across her face, walked over the grass towards us. Actually, 'walked' is entirely the wrong word. She undulated sinuously. Funnily enough, unlike the other Lothíriels with their midnight tresses down to their waists (apart from the ragamuffin ones who'd given themselves haircuts with their brother's dagger and now had fetching Audrey Hepburn/ kd Lang crops – how they achieved this with a dagger is anyone's guess), this one had shoulder length light brown hair. Then the veil slipped to reveal a short beard and very masculine jawline.

“Oh shit,” said Éomer. 

A soft whinny came from beneath the window. A whinny that sounded strangely like “Ho boy, aw-kward!” Strangely enough, Firefoot appeared to be being voiced by Owen Wilson.

“Éomer, oh Éomer! It's me, your Hephaistion. Who are all these dark haired houris?”

“Hephaistion?” asked Boromir, lifting an eyebrow.

“Look, 99% of the stuff I do is het, with Lothíriel, but once in a while someone writes something a bit more...outré. And sometimes they're cross-overs, okay. Look, doesn't mean I'm gay, right?”

“Definitely bi though,” I said.

At this point all hell broke loose outside. The Lothíriels attacked Hephaistion, who fortunately was well up to the task of defending himself, having fought his way across half of Asia Minor with Alexander. So then the dark haired host turned on itself and started attacking each other. I was hit by another undergarment which came sailing through the window. As I tried to struggle out from beneath the folds of fabric, they morphed into the familiar pattern of my duvet cover, and I realised I'd finally managed to wake up.

~o~O~o~

Ruth and Charlize thought my dream was absolutely hilarious.

“Hephaistion... I've read that fic. It's one of the funniest things I've ever read. Absolute bloody comic genius. Did your Firefoot sound like Owen Wilson?” Ruth asked.

“How did you know?” I asked in reply.

“Funny, when I read it, he sounded like Eddie Izzard,” said Charlize.


	9. Love among the mallorn trees

Well, hullo there. It's me, Sophie, back again after another long break. My author is pleading real life activities as an excuse: costume making for the school play; day job; dental appointments – huh, the oldest one in the book; and no doubt the dog ate her homework as well. But I think she's been two-timing me with Farawyn again... though, mercifully – spoiler alert – she's left Éowyn asleep, and no doubt having salacious dreams, beside a camp fire somewhere on the plains of Rohan. So (channels the Doctor in his David Tennant incarnation), where were we? Ah yes, Barcelona... oops, I mean, planning to join the Fellowship. 

So here we were, heading for the Christmas holidays. We had two things in our favour: a nice long break from school; and a canon compatible time to pick up the Fellowship in Lothlórien. Charlize and I had had long discussions about this. I had no desire to “do Moria”. Darkness, cave trolls, orcs, balrogs... count me out of that one. Lothlórien on the other hand would offer a gentle introduction – a timeless stretch in which to get to know our companions (okay, so I already knew Boromir pretty well, but I reckoned we could do with plenty of time and possibly Galadriel's help in order to persuade Aragorn that having a couple of girls along would be good idea, never mind the issue of convincing him that we weren't Mary Sues).

I started preparing things. In particular, I had a rucksack at the ready. It contained a pen knife, first aid kit (including rehydration salts and a recipe for improvising these with table salt and honey), water purifying tablets, sleeping bag (the Fellowship may be able to cope with just a cloak in the middle of winter – that doesn't mean I can), a decent waterproof, several extra base-layers, a couple of changes of underwear and plenty of socks. Not to mention the Anglo Saxon primer, a printout of Hisweloke's Sindarin Dictionary, and some Kendal mint cake. I purposefully left out the books – the books – because the risk of having those fall into enemy hands and give the plot away was just too great. However, I did include a little something for Boromir.

By the way, did I mention that my dad's a copper? No? Ah, bit of an oversight there. (Note to my esteemed author: you normally remember to drop these hints a few chapters earlier, so that when you come to pick the plot thread back up again later, it all seems quite natural and not an obvious plot McGuffin. You're falling down on the job here. Pull your finger out, and stop putting all your effort into bloomin' Farawyn). So, not a plot McGuffin at all, my dad the copper. Anyway, being a copper, this meant he had a kevlar stab-vest. Or rather, he used to have a kevlar stab jacket. Because now it was buried inside my rucksack, ready to be passed on to Boromir in anticipation of a certain fracas just above the falls of Rauros. (Okay, so dad would have to explain this to his boss. But I was sure they would be able to find him a new one. Surely police stations have supplies of spares).

Despite going back to school to start our A levels, Charlize had kept us hard at work. Running four mornings a week, archery on Saturdays, riding lessons on Sundays, fencing club at school on a Thursday. She had also immersed herself in learning Sindarin and Anglo-Saxon. I was still reading bad fanfics for the fun of it, a pastime in which I was joined by Ruth (when she came home for the holidays – Oxford terms are only eight weeks long, so she had extremely long holidays). She was spreading the word about the joys of bad fanfic: she managed to corrupt a visiting university friend. 

This caused endless fun – the friend was reading physiology (what you call the first three years of medicine if you go to a university so ancient it has no medical school – the British education system is nothing if not weird and wonderful), and doing a dissertation on human fertility. She and Ruth spent a whole afternoon going through fanfic methods of contraception, and producing a spreadsheet-based estimate (based on the research literature) of how long the average Mary-Sue self insert would be able to practise said methods before falling pregnant. Estimates were compared to the base line of real female fertility – an average of three months of trying. The Mary Sues ranged from zero months (anyone not practising some hokey home-spun method fell pregnant the first time, every single fic without fail) upwards. We reckoned “herbal remedies” (aka the placebo effect mentioned in connection with my ravening horde of Lothíriels) would put you bang on the three month mark. Some of the folksy-remedies were surreal in their sheer inventiveness – raw onions consumed at the full moon, anyone? The rhythm method (practised in the absence of any knowledge of the underlying biology) put you in the four to four and a half month bracket, while the chosen method of my very own dear author's Farawyn pairing might take them up to the five month mark if they were lucky (though it had already failed once in Faramir's previous relationship, so personally I thought he was being pretty damn irresponsible). The afternoon's entertainment did cause me pause for thought – in a state of great embarrassment, I went to the local chemist's shop, and a few packs of condoms got added to the contents of my rucksack. I sincerely hoped Charlize would not want them, but they wouldn't go to waste – I could always pass them on to Éowyn. 

But now the school Christmas holiday was almost upon us, and with it, the perfect time to try to make our way to Lothlórien. We decided to go for that tried and trusted method: a walk in the woods. We got the train to Manchester, then a second train to Lancaster, then hopped on a bus out into the countryside.

But at this stage things went a little bit wrong. Charlize had done loads and loads of research on Middle Earth, and now counted as a fully-paid-up Tolkien nerd. But she hadn't done her research about our home turf. Thus we found ourselves in the Forest of Bowland, only to find... it wasn't a forest. Well, it sort of was – according to the fact sheet in the tourist office, it was a forest in the old-fashioned sense of the word – it had once been a royal hunting ground. But there weren't many trees. High fells, wild moorland and gritstone outcrops abounded. But no trees. 

We bought an OS map and pored over it with some interest. Eventually we realised we were within striking distance – about five miles or so – of a stretch of woodland along the river near Slaidburn Bridge. We walked out of the door of the tourist office and into our second surprise of the day: we almost collided with my cousin Ruth.

“Thank God I've caught up with you,” said Ruth. “I missed the bus in Lancaster and had to hitch.”

“What? We had no idea you were coming,” I burst out.

“Your mum insisted I tag along so you'd have someone older to look after you. You can't just go trudging round the wilds of Lancashire without a grown-up.”

“Well, first off, we're both over sixteen now, and secondly, it's questionable whether you count as grown-up,” I replied. Beside me Charlize rolled her eyes. 

“And in what world does missing the bus and having to hitch qualify you as the mature one?” Charlize said in a cutting voice.

How the heck were we going to get rid of Ruth? In the short term, there was nothing for it but to let her tag along. Hopefully we could shake her off in the woods and get on with things. So we set off at a brisk pace. We followed the narrow lane up the hill, past pub and church, till we reached a gate with a stile beside it; this was the start of the bridleway to Slaidburn Bridge.

It was Charlize who came up with a plan. 

“Here, Ruth, have some water. It's quite a mild day, and you don't want to get dehydrated.” And so she continued, for the next five miles, pretending to drink herself, and then offering the water bottle to my cousin. Not surprisingly, by the time we finally followed a footpath into the woods, Ruth was desperate and disappeared with great haste behind the first bush that offered enough privacy. 

“Quick,” hissed Charlize, and we ran off at a mad speed down the path. The path wound through the trees, and we managed to get out of sight before Ruth emerged. We could hear her voice yelling our names, first sounding puzzled, then sounding angry, then starting to sound rather scared. Then she gave a piercing scream.

“What was that?” Charlize yelped.

Simultaneously, I squeaked, “I don't think she's fooling around, that sounded like it was for real.” Pell-mell, we retraced our steps, jumping stones and tree roots as we ran back to where we'd left Ruth. She had disappeared without a trace. Charlize spotted a boot-print in the mud between bushes, and we followed the trail. We found ourselves heading deeper and deeper into thick undergrowth and brambles, until eventually we found ourselves flailing our way through really dense bushes. Finally spotting a slight thinning in the foliage, we pushed our way through, and tumbled down a grassy bank, coming to a halt by the bank of a river. 

“What business do strangers have on the banks of the Nimrodel,” a voice like crystal demanded. We looked up to find the point of an arrow trained on me (why not Charlize, I wanted to scream, but I couldn't say anything). The arrow led back to the high, sculpted cheek-bones of a beautiful face, framed by ethereally blond hair. In the background, I could see Ruth, flanked by two other tall, blond figures. Frankly, I was bricking it. Charlize, on the other hand, seemed unruffled.

“We were following the screams of my friend's kinswoman. We feared she had been taken by orcs,” she said, coolly.

“From whence do you come?” demanded the tall figure. 

“The borders of the Riddermark,” Charlize replied smoothly.

“You do not dress as women of the Rohirrim,” the blond said, suspiciously. “Your garb is strange, unlike unto anything I have ever seen before.” This was true enough. Charlize had packed us some marvellous home-spun stuff she'd bought at a craft fair, but Ruth's disappearance had really messed up our plans; we hadn't had time to change, and were wearing tracksuit bottoms, thermals and waterproof jackets. At least they weren't too garish. Charlize's was pale blue, mine was a dull green.

At this point we were interrupted by Ruth. “Orcs? Rohirrim? The Riddermark?” she squeaked. “Is this some sort of mad joke you've cooked up with a bunch of mates from the local LARP society? When are Irrumator and Raphanidon going to put in an appearance?”

“Nay, my lady, I know of none with such strange names,” the creature said. “I am Haldir, Marchwarden of Lothlorien, and these are my brothers, Rumil and Orophin. I am afraid that they do not speak the Common Tongue, beyond a few basic phrases.”

“Very good, you've got the dialogue nailed. And the pointy ears are almost convincing. Now can we just stop?” Ruth said, sounding increasingly annoyed.

“Uh, Ruth, it's not a joke, really, it isn't,” I said.

“Yeah, like I'm really going to buy the idea that we're tenth, eleventh and reluctant twelfth walkers... Don't tell me, Charlize is after Legolas.”

At the name “Legolas” Haldir lifted his bow once more, training it on us, and muttering to his brothers in his own language, with the result that one whipped out a knife and held it to the side of Ruth's neck.

“Now see what you've done,” said Charlize. Ruth reacted in the only way a sane person would in this situation. She had a panic attack.

It took ages, and a lot of smooth talking on Charlize's part, to calm things down. Eventually, we got Ruth to get her breathing under control, persuaded Haldir to stop pointing his bow at us, got him to persuade Orophin/Rumil to put the knife down (I still wasn't sure which was which, and felt this could only bode badly for when we eventually got to meet the Elrondion twins). We were blindfolded and escorted through the forest. After a long walk, our eyes were unbound, and we looked out to see that we had arrived on the lawn beneath the city of flets in the treetops. 

Suddenly a deep, manly yell reverberated in our ears.

“Sophie! It's been ages.” And Boromir came jogging between the tree trunks. He threw his arms round me, picked me up in a bear-hug and spun me round in a circle before setting me down. “You've grown, child. My, how long is it? When did we last meet? Was it that strange day on the plains of Rohan with all the Lothíriels?”

“I thought that was just a dream,” I said in surprise.

“Well, you may have been dreaming in your world, but while you were, you travelled to our world.”

“What happened after I'd gone?” I asked.

“Ah, let me think. You left just after that Greek guy arrived.”

“Macedonian,” muttered Ruth pedantically.

Boromir frowned at being interrupted, then went on, “Anyway, Hephaistion slew all the Lothíriels except for one – the Haradrim assassin Lothíriel. She pulled him into a passionate snog, he suddenly decided he wasn't gay (I'm still not sure whether Éomer's relief was genuine or not) and they rode off into the sunset together. Éomer slunk back to Rohan, I spent another bit of time in limbo, then woke up to find myself in this version of the story. So far, so canon. Well, almost, but we'll get to that in a moment. Aren't you going to introduce me to your friends?”

“Boromir, this is my friend Charlize and my cousin Ruth.”

Boromir bowed deeply, then solemnly (and respectfully) kissed both their hands. “I am honoured to make your acquaintance, my ladies.” Ruth turned rather pink. Charlize simply stood there, opening and shutting her mouth like a goldfish.

“Will we be able to meet the rest of the fellowship?” I asked.

“Yes, all, save Gandalf, obviously, are nearby. Well, except for Legolas and Gimli, who have gone to walk in the woods and explore the wondrous sights Lothlórien offers.” I could see Charlize was about to say something, or possibly just let out a very loud “squee”, so I quickly intervened before she could get carried away. I knew Boromir wasn't going to think much of a sixteen year old in pursuit of Legolas. Even though sixteen meant she was at least over age in our country, there's still a huge difference between legal and decent – and sixteen and two-thousand is not decent in any sane person's estimation (in which category, Boromir and I both counted ourselves). I decided to go for a bit of distraction.

“How's Aragorn? I still remember his reaction last time. He's going to have a cow when he realises there's not one, but three women being added to the party.”

“Oh, it's alright,” said Boromir. “This fanfic's been written by a much better class of author. Aragorn's much closer to canon, and isn't a sexist bastard this time round.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Charlize beaming with pride. Boromir led us through the mallorn trees to a small encampment.

“Oh, looks like Legolas and Gimli are back,” he said. He gestured to where two figures lay on their backs on the grass in a small clearing, close but not quite touching. They were taking it in turns to point at clouds, and laughing. As far as I could see, they were engaged in some sort of game of “what does that one look like to you?” As we got closer, I thought I heard the words “Mumak” and “Mearas”. 

Charlize looked at the pair, and stopped dead. For a moment, I couldn't see what her problem was. But then I looked back. The dwarf (who still looked more like Fili than Mr. Potato Head) and elf looked utterly relaxed. It had all the hallmarks of the sort of friendship so deep and yet so natural that one could talk equally well about anything , ridiculously frivolous or profoundly serious – or nothing, and lie in companionable silence. Then Legolas pointed once more at a cloud, and said something which I didn't quite catch. Gimli dissolved into laughter, his eyes crinkling at the corners, face lit up. Legolas looked at the laughing dwarf, and suddenly I saw what Charlize saw: Legolas' face lit up in response to the light in his friend's face. They didn't have to touch. The love they had for one another was obvious, shining like sunshine on a bright summer's day.

“Umm,” said Boromir awkwardly. “Sorry, should have tried to find a way to break it to your friend more gently. You see, the thing with really good fanfic – and your friend has been writing really good fanfic – is that it gives the characters... us... a chance to be ourselves, to be in character, but to develop in ways Tolkien maybe laid the seeds of, but didn't follow up. And think about it: the long walks in Lothlórien, getting to know one another and forming a friendship; Gimli hating boats, yet trusting Legolas enough to join him in his boat; Legolas drawing his bow on Éomer in front of a full Éored, just to defend his friend; the light-hearted banter on the way to Isengard; Gimli visiting Fangorn and Legolas the glistening caves; being inseparable for the rest of Gimli's life; Legolas getting special dispensation to take Gimli with him when he sailed to Valinor...

“Gimli and Legolas are the Canon slash pairing.”


	10. Group Therapy

Charlize quietly took herself off somewhere. Ruth and I decided it was best to leave her alone for a bit while she mulled things over. We sat down by the side of the clearing with Boromir. The elf and dwarf eventually noticed we were there, and came over to join us, sitting beside one another on the turf. They smiled cheerfully as Boromir introduced them, then made polite conversation. They were clearly comfortable enough with each other to be able to turn their attention outwards – a sign of a good relationship, my mum always says. After a while, Aragorn arrived.

“Do you think she'll give up on this version?” asked Boromir, anxiously. “The thing is, it's actually quite a good one. None of us are wildly out of character, we're largely getting to do our own thing.”

“Yes, this one's not bad at all,” added Aragorn. “By the way, sorry about being such a git last time round. I don't really think girls are useless. Arwen wouldn't have agreed to marry me if I did. And thankfully, we are still betrothed. She hasn't sailed to Valinor leaving the way open for some feisty twenty-first century woman to be, well, feisty. And unfeasibly skilled with weapons. And, um, unfeasibly demanding in other areas.” He blenched visibly at the mere thought.

“And I'm sorry for kissing you,” said Legolas.

“You kissed her?” said Gimli, and burst out laughing.

Legolas turned rather pink. “Yes, I was cast in one of those 'macho elf who is all masterful with women' fics, you know, where I'm all Byronic and 'mad, bad and dangerous to know'.”

Gimli laughed even harder. “You're not masterful. You're a big softy,” he said, affectionately, punching Legolas gently on the arm. “Well, orcs and cave trolls excepted.”

“What about drawing your bow on Éomer in front of a full Éored?” asked Ruth. Gimli gave a sidelong, somewhat adoring glance at Legolas and muttered something about “you'd do that for me?”

“Shush,” I said to Ruth, “we haven't got to that bit yet.” I paused, then grinned back at Gimli. “If it's any consolation, Legolas wasn't very good at kissing.”

Gimli gave a smug smile, and said, “That's what you think.” Legolas turned an even deeper shade of pink, but looked quite pleased at the same time.

“So,” said Ruth, “It must be weird, constantly finding yourselves pitched into yet another version of the same story, but with a slightly different twist each time.”

“Slightly different is okay,” said Boromir. “Very different, not so much. And often, not so much slightly twist, more extremely twisted.” Suddenly he looked very troubled and upset. Aragorn reached over and patted him on the arm.

“Those fics aren't you, they're just very messed up kids writing under the influence of far too many hormones in their bloodstream,” he said, comfortingly.

“Oh, those sorts of fics,” said Ruth.

“I don't really want to talk about it. It's too upsetting,” said Boromir, in a slightly wobbly voice.

“Boromir,” said Aragorn, in his best serious king-to-be-voice, “Those of us who are privileged to know you well know that you would never force yourself on anyone.” Boromir blinked several times, thanked Aragorn in rather hoarse tones, then muttered inarticulately about having something in his eye. A few moments passed in awkward silence.

“Some of them can be quite funny, in a twisted sort of way, though,” said Legolas. “There's that writer with the thing about spanking...”

“Oh Valar,” said Aragorn, and buried his head in his hands. “Faramir is not my son, and there's no way I'd ever burst into his room in order to 'administer discipline.' Specially not when he was a grown man. And married...”

“Mind you, Éowyn managed to stop that particular writer in her tracks, didn't she?” said Gimli.

“Yes, she'd been in some sort of mash-up the week before... Monday Pie Town or something...” Legolas said.

Ruth and I frowned in puzzlement for a few moments, then the penny dropped. “Monty Python,” I said in triumph.

“Yes, that's right. Anyway, she remembered some of the dialogue, and when we realised that we were in another one of the demon spanker's fics, she started to ad-lib.”

“Yeah, you know how it feels when a character feels like they've taken on a life of their own and are doing stuff all by themselves? Well, it feels that way because they really have!” Legolas and Gimli were so excited they'd started picking up each other's sentences. I found it rather sweet, if slightly nauseating. 

“So Legolas and I, and Aragorn arrived in Meduseld...”

“And she comes rushing up to us and starts talking in this really strange accent. And giggling – she was having real trouble keeping her face straight.” (I don't know if you've ever heard an elf who's never even heard of France trying to do a French accent, but, trust me, it's a very, very weird experience). “So she says 'I've been a vair, vair naughty girl and you must spank me. And after ze spanking, ze …'.”

“Yes, I think I know that bit,” I interrupted hastily. “But please remember, our author is trying to keep this fic T-rated. Actually, she started out at K+, but couldn't manage that. And as for ze activity in question, I still can't see why anyone would want to do that.”

“Your innocence does you great credit,” said Ruth, dryly.

“Anyhow,” said Gimli, looking a bit miffed that the joint anecdote had been interrupted, “I think the author got the message. We're hoping that she'll keep writing, just without the spanking, because the rest of her stories are really good – involved sagas of post-war political manoeuvrings, good characterisation, decent dialogue.”

“Some of the crack fics are quite good fun, though,” said Aragorn. “There was one which started from the observation that an awful lot of authors seem to feel it necessary to mention that arrows are made from iron. I mean, d'uh. We're clearly not modelled on a Stone Age or Bronze Age civilisation. So anyway, the crack-fic writer started speculating what else they could be made from, and then we all found ourselves in this crazy battle, where I had a plastic sword, Gimli had a foam axe, and Legolas had a bow with arrows with little suction cups on the end. And Éowyn had to gallop across the Pelennor fields on a rocking horse, with a bamboo cane in her hand. Fortunately the orcs and Southrons had been replaced by cuddly soft toys.”

“At least Éowyn existed in that one,” said Boromir sadly. “Did you know that a well-known manufacturer of plastic toys have written her out completely? How's the Witch King of Angmar going to get killed, that's what I want to know? She's so brilliant, and they haven't even made her into a mini-figure.” I patted him on the arm. Poor Boromir, he'd really got it bad. This had to be the crush to end all crushes. Ruth and I were going to have to come up with a plan to help him. 

Meanwhile, the others were still musing about fanfiction. “But the Mary Sue ones, and tenth walker ones,” said Legolas with a shudder. “And the ones that want to marry me.” He gave a wince.

Ruth looked thoughtful. “I suppose we are, technically, tenth, eleventh and twelfth walkers. Not that we've actually walked anywhere yet. And I like to think we're too inept to count as Mary Sues. We came up with a name for the ones that want to marry you – we call them 'Muriels' after a character in a film... that's sort of like a play. She's this daft young woman whose whole life revolves around imagining her big elaborate wedding, even though she doesn't even have a boyfriend.”

Aragorn laughed bitterly. “Oh trust us, we know what films are. You may think amateur fanfic is bad, but for us, it's what happens when some Kiwi hobbit-alike gets given a huge special effects budget that's really terrifying. Forget the Muriels, forget spanking... it's Jackson who truly scares the crap out of us.”

“He totally messed up my brother's character, for a start. Faramir gets into a rage if you so much as mention him. And it takes a hell of a lot to make Faramir angry,” said Boromir.

“Glorfindel still hasn't forgiven him for writing him out of the movie entirely,” Aragorn added.

“Still, at least his OC in the latest film wasn't too bad,” said Gimli.

“What, you mean Figwit?” asked Boromir.

“Figwit?” said Ruth in puzzled tones.

“It's a kind of in-joke,” I explained. “The unnamed elf next to Frodo at the council of Elrond – FIGWIT stands for 'Frodo is great, who is that?'”

Gimli chuckled. “I haven't heard that one before. But I was thinking of Tauriel. We thought from the trailers that she'd be a total Mary Sue, but actually she was okay – kick-ass but not completely over the top.”

Aragorn snorted with laughter, while Legolas grimaced. He'd obviously heard whatever gag was coming far too many times to see the funny side any more. Aragorn went straight ahead anyway. “She only came across as okay because Jackson turned Leggy here into such a total Gary-Stu that Tauriel looked like she was a character out of an Ingmar Bergman movie by comparison.”

“Mind you,” said Gimli, “It was weird to see someone who looked just like me playing a different dwarf entirely...”

“Oh, yeah, I realised first time I saw you that you looked like Fili,” I said.

“Kili,” the dwarf corrected.

“She can never remember which is which,” Ruth explained. “She's dreadful with names and faces.”

“Actually though, unflattering as his casting for the first trilogy was,” Gimli said thoughtfully, “In retrospect I'm pretty relieved, because at least I escape the attentions of... what did you call them? The Muriels?”

“It may surprise you to know this, but Arwen has a pretty similar joke,” said Aragorn. “As you can imagine, she spends even more time in limbo between fics than Boromir does. In fact, even in the original, she hardly gets a look in. Bit of a sore point with her, to be honest. She can rant for hours on the subject of 'all I get to do is embroider that bloody tea towel.' And her specialist subject is 'If I'm meant to be like Luthien, how come I don't get to disguise myself as a monster and rescue my lover from the Evil Lord's dungeons?' In that respect, I think she quite likes old PJ. At least he let her wield a sword and ride to the ford carrying Frodo with the Nazgûl in hot pursuit. Anyway, in between embroidery sessions (and rants), she watches quite a few films. She's identified a set of fanfic authors who are middle aged women having a mid-life crisis. She calls them 'Shirleys' after the film Shirley Valentine, but instead of having a fling with a Greek taverna owner, they write smutty fanfic instead. Probably their husbands prefer it that way. Though it must be hard for the husbands knowing that they're being compared mentally to Boromir, or Faramir, or Éomer, or... well, me, I suppose. Mind you, apparently one of the Shirleys claims I don't wash my hair often enough to be in the running. Something Arwen never tires of dropping into the conversation.”

“Oh, look out everyone, the hobbits are coming...” Legolas interrupted Aragorn's monologue.

“Why, what's wrong with the hobbits?” I asked.

“They don't know about fanfic – they think each time this happens it's all real. A bit like _The Truman Show_ ,” Aragorn explained. “Telling them the truth... well, it would be a bit like telling a five year old that Santa isn't real.”

The four hobbits approached cautiously, then, when Boromir had introduced us, chattered away as if the world would stop turning on its axis if they so much as paused for breath. (Actually, does Middle Earth turn on its axis? Or is it flat?) At any rate, Merry and Pippin did – Sam occasionally chipped in with some doggrel verse, though Frodo was a bit quieter. The two youngest hobbits talked non-stop for the next three hours, until I felt quite exhausted.

When they'd finally gone (in search of food, predictably enough: good to see some fanfic clichés were alive and kicking), I turned to Boromir.

“I've brought you a present,” I said.

“For me? That's really sweet. Do you not want to see whether Charlize will let you stay, though, before you give it to me?” he answered.

“No, you can have it in any case.” I dug in my rucksack and fished out the kevlar stab vest. Boromir took it gingerly, turned it over in his hands, then gave me a quizzical look.

“I don't want to offend you, but this feels too light to be any use,” he said.

“Here, I got a spare piece from the demonstration kit. Let me hang it from this tree.” I fixed it from a couple of pieces of tape. “Legolas, can you take a shot at this from, oh, about ten paces?”

Legolas raised his eyebrows and gave a cocky smirk. “I can hit it from a couple of hundred, if you want.”

“I'm sure you can, but I want to demonstrate what the armour can do at point blank range.” Legolas duly obliged, and I took the spare piece over to Boromir and Aragorn. The arrow was embedded a little way into the front surface. They turned the piece over and gasped in amazement: the reverse side was barely dented.

“Now try it with a dagger.” Aragorn and Boromir both took turns, giving it their all. Again, they barely made any impression.

“This is amazing!” Aragorn gasped. “It's lighter than mithril, and stronger. What is it?”

“It's... um...” I paused. How did you explain modern plastic materials to people from Middle Earth. “It's made from oil we get out of the rocks, then turned into a sort of stuff a bit like artificial spider silk – this is how strong spider silk would be if you could form it into a single block. Anyway, knowing what's coming up, I thought it might be useful.” Boromir gave me a delighted grin, then picked me up in his arms and whirled me round several times. 

I suddenly remembered the other thing I'd been meaning to say to him. “And if Charlize lets us stay, me and Ruth are going to try to come up with an idea for how you can impress Éowyn.”


	11. Epic Elven Poems of Leurve

**This one's for Lady Peter. Postmodernism as explained by a New York taxi driver: “So you wanna know the creed ah Jack Derrida? Der ain't no readah. Der ain't no writah, eidah.” But fear not, gentle readers, I have no intention of disappearing up my own post-modern posterior: as I said to Tommy Ginger, “I may have pretentious interlekshul leanings and play Beethoven, but I also have a mind like a sewer.” (You don't want to know what we were discussing, but suffice it to say, it involved slash).**

It was mid afternoon before Charlize reappeared. Ruth and I took one look at her red-ringed eyes and led her by the hand away from the the fellowship. I decided there was no point beating about the bush.

“What do you want to do?”

Charlize gave a huge, gulping sob. “Part of me just wants to go straight home and never get mixed up in fanfic again. But... I've gone to so much effort to get us here, and into a decent story. Oh, I don't know what to do.”

“I vote for staying,” said Ruth.

“But what is there for me, now that I can't have Legolas?” Charlize looked as though she was going to cry again.

“The chance to explore Middle Earth? Meet Elves and Dwarves, see Ents?” said Ruth, in a voice filled with wonder. “Have the most exciting time of our lives?”

“Yeah, and get shot at by arrows. The pointy iron variety, not the suction cup variety. And maybe die in a battle,” I said. “What if we die? Do we die back home too? Do you really want to take that chance?”

“Where's your sense of adventure?” said Ruth, briskly.

“Lost it down the back of the sofa,” I answered, sarkily. “So one vote stay, one vote go home. Looks like you've got the casting vote, Charlize.”

“I always did have,” said Charlize, with a note of steel in her voice that I'd never heard before. “My story, remember?” Ruth and I sat still, hardly daring to breathe, waiting for the decision. Eventually Charlize looked up at us. There was something in her eyes and the set of her jaw that told me the answer before she even spoke.

“We stay.”

~o~O~o~

Decision made, Charlize fell to a late lunch as though she hadn't eaten in months. As she guzzled her way through bread and cheese and honey, Boromir and Aragorn wandered into the clearing and sat down beside us. Predictably, Boromir began to wax lyrical on his favourite subject, the wonders of a certain maid of Rohan whom he'd encountered on the outward journey to Rivendell. He gave a heartfelt sigh, and then unburdened his heart. Honestly, I like Boromir a lot, but there's only so much of this mushy stuff a girl can take, and I've taken my fill from Charlize. Boromir, though, apparently missed my eye-roll.

“She's just wonderful. She's brilliant with a sword, a fabulous horsewoman, brave, honest, full of guts. And she's so beautiful. I want to spend a lifetime riding out on errantry with her by my side.” 

“Not encouraging her to garden?” said Ruth, with a probing glance.

“Of course not. Why on earth would Éowyn want to garden? She's the sort of woman who wants to save the world, not save last year's sweet pea seeds,” said Boromir staunchly.

“Well, in that case I will definitely help you. I always felt pissed off that the otherwise wonderful JRR had Éowyn decide to be a shieldmaiden no longer, and turn her attention to gardening,” Ruth replied.

“Mind you,” said Aragorn, a slightly evil grin flitting across his face, “There was one fic where she was only too happy to garden...”

“Go on,” said Charlize.

“Do I want to hear this one?” asked Boromir.

“Nope,” said Aragorn, his grin turning positively saturnine.

Boromir got to his feet. “I'm going for a little walk,” he said. “I may be some time...” I started to get to my feet to go with him and check that he was alright, but Ruth put a hand on my arm.

“Something tells me this one's going to be worth sticking around for.”

Aragorn waited till Boromir had disappeared between the trees. “Okay, You know Arwen's into films? Well, she's quite into theoretical discussions of films and books too. And she's really taken with the idea that there's a kind of space between what the author intends a character to be like, and what readers interpret the character to be like... and this space in between is kind of where we all live.”

Ruth's jaw dropped to the floor. “What... Arwen's a postmodernist?”

“Yeah, I think partly because the Oxbridge establishment hates postmodernism so much. I think she sees it as the ultimate revenge on Prof. Tolkien for all that bloody embroidery.”

“I suppose without the possibility of multiple readings, fanfic wouldn't exist,” said Ruth. Charlize buried her face in her hands. This sort of thing was just the sort of stuff she'd hated in English lessons. But then she lifted her head, and I realised that, as with so many things, the last six months or so had changed her attitude to this too. She had that look of determined but slightly puzzled concentration I'd seen on her face as she read _The Silmarillion._

“But not just that,” said Aragorn. “Fanfic itself is particularly prone to multiple readings, because the authors usually aren't that good, so they don't pin down the characters very well. Or perhaps we should divide them in three. There's the really bad ones, who spell everything out in words of one syllable because they can't do anything of any subtlety at all. If they're really bad, they even head each section with phrases like “ _Legolas' POV”._ Nothing makes me hit the back button faster than those three letters: _“POV”._ Well, except for the phrase “Aragorn/Legolas”. Man, I don't even click on those to open them in the first place. 

“Then there's the really good ones,” he continued, “Who do manage to draw the characters well with just the odd hint here and there -some who can even manage to have their narrator believing one thing about a character while making the readership realise that the character in question is actually quite different entirely.”

“Mmm, spoon licking,” said Ruth. Aragorn shot her a look of exasperation at being interrupted.

“And then there's the lumpen mass in the middle who get the idea that you have to leave some things a bit ambiguous, but aren't skilled enough at doing it, so you're not quite sure what to make of the character. Anyway, there was one particular woman who was writing a post-war Faramir and Éowyn fic.”

“Ah, now I see why Boromir's run away to hide,” said Charlize, sadly. “I know _exactly_ how the poor guy feels.”

“But the thing was, the author wasn't quite clear whether she was going for movie canon or book canon. So half the readers took it one way, and half took it the other way. So in the space between readings, all sorts of strange things started happening, with the result that one day within the story, Arwen made this off-hand remark about how happy Éowyn looked, if a bit tired, and wondered if she was over-doing the gardening. Gimli said something about 'well, who wouldn't be happy, married to that gorgeous auburn-haired hunk of hers?' And Legolas looked really surprised and said 'Gorgeous, yes, but he's got dark, almost black hair.' Then they had this big argument – stockily built versus slender yet muscular, man of action versus scholar who is reluctantly good at wielding weapons, etc. etc. Then suddenly it dawned on us.

“The reason she was happy just pottering in the garden was because she was shagged out. Not as in 'tired from doing too much gardening', but quite literally shagged out. The multiple readings had created two Faramirs, and she was married to both of them. It's the only post-war fic I've read where she's been really, genuinely happy with domestic bliss.”

~o~O~o~

“Boromir.” I called to him softly. He was sitting on a fallen log, looking a bit dejected. “Come back to where the others are sitting. Ruth and I have a plan.” Still looking slightly forlorn, Boromir followed me back to the clearing.

“So,” said Ruth, business-like as ever, “Sophie here tells me that you tried to ask Éowyn out, but that she said she preferred the sensitive, intellectual type.”

“Yes,” said Boromir, glumly. “She's going to fall for my brother, just like she always does.”

“Not always,” said Legolas with a slightly pained expression. “Sometimes she decides she needs more excitement in her life, and apparently I am just the Ellon for the job. Very occasionally she decides to cross class barriers in pursuit of a bit of rough and goes for Beregond.”

“I could try to be a bit of rough if that's what she wanted,” said Boromir, suddenly and slightly inexplicably developing a Sheffield accent. 

“Well, she does sometimes have a brief dalliance with you before you die tragically, leaving her free to seek consolation with your brother...” said Aragorn.

Charlize swatted Aragorn with a piece of bracken. “Strider, that's not helping,” she said firmly.

“And,” added Ruth, looking at the heir of Isildur with an evil glint in her eye, “You've forgotten all the fem-slash where she conveniently steals your beloved.”

“Anyway, here's the deal. We've got hold of a blank book of vellum, or parchment, or whatever it is, and Legolas here apparently has the most beautiful handwriting. So we're going to produce a tasteful book of Elvish love poetry,” I explained. “All you have to do is sit around reading it, looking sensitive, and occasionally sighing soulfully.”

I lent forward to pass the book to Leggy. As I did so, suddenly, as if from nowhere, the Hobbits appeared. Fortunately they seemed only to have caught the tail end of the conversation, so we hadn't given the game away.

“Who's got to sigh soulfully?” asked Pippin.

“We're putting together a book of poetry so Boromir can come across as the sensitive, intellectual type next time he meets the girl of his dreams. Everyone's got to come up with their favourite poem.”

“Right you are,” said Merry. “I'll start...  
 _From the town council hall of Small Smials_  
 _Came a cry that resounded for miles._  
 _Said the Bedesman 'Good Gracious_  
 _Has Warden Horatius_  
 _Forgotten the Mayor...”_

“Not that sort of poetry,” said Charlize. But her attempt to inject some sense into proceedings fell on deaf ears.

“Brilliant, I love that one. Who'd have thought there'd be limericks in Middle Earth,” Ruth crowed with delight.

“My favourite Dwarven art form,” said Legolas with a grin. Gimli gave a chuckle and settled himself comfortably in the crook of the Elf's arm.

“Look, it doesn't matter,” said Aragorn. “The Rohirrim are mostly illiterate so she won't know what sort of poetry it is in the book.” Boromir shot him a withering glance at hearing his lady-love's intellectual capabilities dismissed in this way. “Okay, okay,” Aragorn continued, holding his hands up, “Let me put it this way: they have a fine oral tradition.”

“Fnarr,” muttered Gimli. I saw Legolas mouthing “Later darling, later,” and offered up a quiet prayer that Charlize had not added lip reading to the list of skills she'd been working on in preparation for our arrival in Middle Earth.

“I think Aragorn meant oral tradition in the same sense as Homer,” said Ruth pompously.

“Who?” chorused the Fellowship, just as Charlize asked “What have the Simpsons got to do with this?”

“Anyhow, thinking of Rohan, they have very similar poems. I learned quite a few when I was there back in '68, serving under Thengel. Good times, good times,” said Aragorn, with a nostalgic shake of his head. “How about this one?  
 _There was a young maid from Ulf Hoo_  
 _Who said as the Rider...”_

Ruth squealed with glee. “It's 'The young lady from Crewe!' Blimey, Middle Earth seems to have all the good ones.”

Pippin grinned. “I've got one...  
 _On a bridge stood the mayor of Tuckingham_  
 _Thinking of...”_

“Oh! The Bishop of Buckingham. That one's absolutely filthy,” said Ruth, “But also amazingly clever. One of my friends used it in her A level English exam as an example of internal rhyming. She got an A*.”

Charlize frowned. “The young lady from Crewe has almost as much internal rhyming, and is much funnier, if you ask me.” She paused for a moment then grinned. “How about we write some of our own? I've got an opening line for you:  
 _There was a young elf called Figwit...”_

Ruth chuckled. “I can think of at least two words to rhyme with Figwit – which is exactly what we need for a limerick.”

I put my head in my hands. At the other side of the clearing, Legolas smiled, took his arm from round Gimli's shoulders, and started to write in the book, his handwriting every bit as elegant and refined as promised.

 

****

**AN: “Mmm, spoon licking” is a reference to one of my favourite fics, Thanwen's Through Shadows, which is simply breath-takingly brilliant.**


	12. The reverse butterfly effect

**or**

**how to introduce OCs while keeping the plot on the rails.**

Thank heavens Ruth had spent last summer working as a helper at an American summer camp. She'd learned how to paddle a Canadian canoe, which was coming in damn handy as we made our way down the Anduin. I'd expected us to be distributed, one per boat, among the rest of the Fellowship. But Galadriel had been quite firm.

“You made the bloody decision to come here.” (I hadn't realised till then that the Lady of the Golden Wood swore). “You get your own bloody boat and you can sink or swim as you see fit. And if you do sink at least it will save us all the worry that you'll seriously distort the plot. And, no, you can't bloody well take a look in my mirror.” Needless to say, none of the three of us had received a gift.

As we struggled along in the wake of the other boats (blokes are a lot stronger, and paddle much faster) we turned our minds to the vexed question of the Plot.

“Tenth walker fics divide in three,” said Ruth. I gave a stifled groan. Really, this endless picking-apart-of-fanfic and burning desire to classify and cross-reference its more bizarre formats was beginning to get a bit much. There's only so much breaking-the-fourth-wall a girl can cope with. (Note to author: go and write some hot Farawyn smut and get this out of your system. Even another Legomance if you really must. But please, enough with the metafiction.) However, Ruth didn't hear, or chose not to hear (or was instructed by our author not to hear) my groan and carried on regardless. “Sometimes the tenth walker conveniently doesn't know how the story ends, so can't give the game away and mess things up.”

“They're pretty rare, though,” said Charlize.

“Then there are some of them where they whole point is that the original characters screw up the story – so we get major canon deaths, all sorts of things going wrong. If the author has an ounce of imagination, they can be about the only decent sort of tenth walker fic.”

“While I might agree on the literary assessment, I think we're all agreed that we don't want that sort of story,” I said. The others nodded.

“So then there's the ones where although the OCs know the plot, miraculously their presence doesn't change anything,” Ruth ticked off the third possibility on her fingers.

“That's the sort we want,” said Charlize. “Surely all we've got to do is keep well out of the way of any action, which suits me fine because like Sophie, I don't particularly want to get shot at by the pointy iron variety of arrow.”

“But... we've already screwed it up,” said Ruth. “Sophie here has given Boromir a stab jacket. And a book of bad Elven poetry.”

“What's so bad about that,” I asked, huffily. “I like Boromir. I don't want him to die an agonising death from orc arrows, yet again.”

“Well, think about the key things that have got to happen when we reach Amon Hen. Boromir has to scare Frodo into going it alone to Mordor, and Pippin and Merry have to be captured by orcs, spurring the chase of the three across Rohan, and getting the Ents involved in overthrowing Saruman. If he doesn't get killed by the orc arrows, Pippin and Merry won't get captured.”

“Well, he'll still scare Frodo,” I said, clutching at straws.

“That's where the Elven poetry comes in. You've given him hope that he might get off with Éowyn and turned him from a miserable, grim-visaged warrior into a happy, romantic heap of mush. At this rate, he won't succumb to the lure of the ring because he'll be too bloody cheerful.”

“You've messed up my story,” Charlize said angrily and started to cry.

“We'll just have to try to encourage him to do the right, I mean, wrong thing when the time comes,” I said.

~o~O~o~

A day or so later, the time had indeed come. The Fellowship, minus Frodo, was sitting on a shingle beach on the edge of the Anduin, just beneath Amon Hen. Frodo had gone off into the woods to think about what he should do next: head to Mordor or go to Minas Tirith. Each of the remaining members seemed lost in his own thoughts. Charlize, Ruth and I were trying to keep out of things. Eventually though, Aragorn started a discussion.

“He is debating which course is the most desperate, I think,” said the Heir of Isildur. He gave a somewhat long winded version of the choices available saying how much he missed Gandalf's advice.

At this point, Legolas dutifully lived up to his Captain Obvious reputation and said, “Grievous is our loss.” From this point the conversation trundled off along its predictable, well-worn path, with the various members balancing up the needs of the quest against their own options. But something was missing. No one was pressing for an immediate return to Minas Tirith, ,do not pass Meduseld, do not collect two hundred mithril pieces'. Because the one person not joining in was Boromir, who was lost in contemplation of his book of verse, a blissful smile on his face. While the rest were preoccupied, Ruth prodded me with her toe. 

“Do something about Boromir,” she hissed as quietly as she could.

I shrugged, then Charlize mouthed, “You've got to.”

“Um, Boromir, do you think you should go and check on Frodo?” I asked, quietly.

“Oh, I'm sure he'll be just fine,” said Boromir, in an absent-minded undertone. Neither of us particularly wanted to interrupt the animated conversation taking place between Aragorn, Gimli and Legolas. “Anyhow, I can't go, I'm busy reading some poetry.”

Ruth rolled her eyes. I had another go. “But he might be lost or something...”

“Well, I'm sure Aragorn can go and find him. He's a Ranger after all, good at tracking and all that.”

I took a deep breath and tried a third time. “What if he's run into some orcs?” 

“Oh, all right then,” said Boromir. “You're going to mither me till I check, aren't you?” He shut the book and stuffed it in his pack, before picking up his scabbard and buckling it back round his waist. With a long-suffering sigh, he set off up the hill into the woods.

Ruth, Charlize and I sat in silence while the remaining members of the Fellowship had a rather heated discussion about the best course of action. They still seemed to have reached no firm conclusion when Boromir reappeared about thirty minutes later.

“Where have you been, Boromir?” asked Aragorn. “Have you seen Frodo?”

“Yes and no. We talked for a bit, then he seemed to get annoyed, then he vanished. He must have put the ring on.”

I gasped in surprise. Surely not! I'd been so convinced that this thoroughly nice, decent version of Boromir wouldn't succumb to the lure of the ring. Ruth and Charlize however looked heartily relieved that things were running according to the original plot. Meanwhile, Aragorn and Boromir started a furious row, culminating in Aragorn running off into the woods to look for Frodo, trailed by Sam. Merry and Pippin also headed off, in a slightly different direction, and Legolas and Gimli also joined the search. Boromir sat down heavily on the shingle with his head in his hands.

“Now look what you've done. I've gone and upset Frodo – I still don't know how. And Aragorn's pissed off with me too. And all I wanted to do was to be left alone with my poetry.”

“Should we go into the woods?” asked Charlize. 

“No,” said Ruth firmly. “We are staying well out of it. We do not want to mess up the plot.”

Suddenly we heard the high-pitched squeaks of the two younger hobbits coming from between the trees.

“Bloody hell, what does a man have to do to get a bit of peace round here,” said Boromir grumpily. But for all his crossness, he still jumped to his feet and sprinted into the trees where the noise had come from.

The three of us sat in silence for a while. Eventually Charlize couldn't take it any longer.

“Ruth, this 'not getting involved and not changing the plot' business is all very well, but it's really extremely tedious. I am bored out of my mind. Can't we go into the woods and see what's going on?”

“Uh, hello? Pointy iron arrows, remember?” I said. Just as we were about to get into an argument, suddenly there was a rustling in the bushes, followed by the crunch of footsteps on the shingle. We could see the pebbles scattering as a line of dimples appeared along the shore, but not the feet responsible.

“Oh for God's sake Frodo, take the bloody ring off,” said Ruth. There was a crunchy, skidding noise just in front of us, a moment's silence, then Frodo appeared.

“So Boromir tried to take the ring from you,” I said, unable to disguise the disappointment in my voice.

“Take the ring?” said Frodo. “What on earth are you wittering on about? Boromir wouldn't do a thing like that.”

“Then why are you running away from him?” asked Charlize.

“He kept bloody going on and on about his horse girl. I can't take any more of it. Honestly, his love sickness is starting to make Mordor positively attractive as a destination.” Frodo grabbed his pack and flung it into the nearest boat. He'd taken about two strokes out into the river when Sam crashed through the bushes, sprinted down to the water's edge then threw himself in. He gave a strangled gasp then sank like a stone, bubbles marking the spot where he'd disappeared. Charlize waded in – it was only up to her waist – picked up the floundering hobbit and hefted him into the boat.

“Good luck, you two,” said Ruth.

“Aren't you going to try to stop us, or come with us?” said Sam, hopefully.

“Nope, you're on your own now,” said Ruth.

The three of us stood in a line on the edge of the shingle, watching as the hobbits paddled steadily across the stream. Eventually they reached the other bank, beached the boat and clambered up the grassy bank beyond. Without so much as a backward glance the two small figures disappeared into the moorland beyond. We went back to our vigil beside the remaining packs and sat down once more.

This time we didn't have to wait long. The scrunch of footsteps behind us alerted us to the return of the ragged remains of the fellowship. Aragorn and Legolas carried Boromir's lifeless form on a hastily constructed bier of ash branches, with Gimli following behind, arms full of the remains of his shield and shards of his horn. They set the bier down.

Then Aragorn and Legolas began to sing, taking it in turns to sing a dirgelike (and somewhat tuneless) ode to the various winds of Middle Earth, lamenting their fallen comrade's passing. Amid the tears pricking my eyelids, I dimly registered the fact that Elven singing isn't actually all it's cracked up to be. Who knew? But before they'd got more than a couple of verses in, Ruth's voice cut the air.

“You complete plonkers! His chest's going up and down. The guy's unconscious, not dead.” 

She rushed over and knelt beside Boromir, slapping his cheek none-so-gently. “Boromir, wake up.” His eyelids fluttered open. He gave a deep, snuffily groan.

“Bugger me, my head hurts.”

“Where are the hobbits?” Aragorn asked.

“N'unggg. Uh, orcs took Pippin and Merry. Orcs with a white hand on their armour. Dunno about Frodo and Sam,” Boromir grunted.

“Frodo and Sam have taken one of the boats and set off towards the Emyn Muil and Dagorlad.”

“Shit,” said Legolas. My eyebrows shot up. That definitely wasn't in the original. Tolkien definitely left out the bit about Elves having potty-mouths.

“Which do we follow?” asked Gimli.

“I think the ring has passed beyond our ken,” said Aragorn. “We track the younger hobbits.”

Boromir tried to get up, but his legs buckled and he collapsed back on the shingle.

“Not you, Boromir. You rest up, and when your concussion's worn off, you and the girls head straight for Edoras.” Boromir brightened visibly at the mention of Edoras. The other three shouldered their packs, checked their belts, knives, axes, small nuclear arsenals (okay, I made that bit up), and prepared to go. 

“Aragorn...” Boromir said in a low voice, each breath clearly costing a struggle.

“Don't strain yourself to speak, _mellon nin,_ ” said Aragorn. “We know we go with your blessing.”

“No, it's not that,” Boromir gasped. “Give my bloody vambraces back, you light-fingered bastard.”


	13. And so to the Golden Hall

No one tells you in the original books, or in the fan fics for that matter, that schlepping across Rohan is really, really dull. Just mile upon mile of flat grassland. It must have taken us the best part of a week. My feet were aching, I was tired of lembas (which, like Elven singing, is much over-hyped if you ask me) and even the occasional rabbit that Boromir managed to snag with a well-aimed throwing knife wasn't particularly tasty when cooked with no salt or seasoning. And as for the complete absence of vegetables in my diet – well, let's just say that old fanfic cliché the issue of leaves and having to make like a bear and crap in the woods wasn't proving to be a particularly frequent problem.

I mentioned this to the others, finishing with: “I've always wondered if all the Muriels and Shirleys never make it further than their local country park. I mean, they appear never to have crapped behind a bush in our world. Surely they can't all be written by girlies who've never been hiking in the back woods and never, ever taken a dump "au naturelle"? Actually, scratch that, yes they are... Weird. Maybe they just have a bung up their arse. Which brings me back to the issue of not enough vegetables, but I guess that's TMI.”

Boromir laughed at the idea of girls talking about poo, but the next bit of conversation made him turn green. Ruth pitched in.

“It's their attitude to periods that makes me laugh. Like you can't do anything other than take a Victorian lady's fit of the vapours. You know how I've been to the Alps with the climbing club the last few summers? Well, my climbing partner Tim has a standing joke that I always get visits from Auntie Flo when we're half way along a knife edge ridge with horrendous cornices. I always have to take my harness off and stuff half a bog roll down my knickers. He says that if I ever have a pregnancy scare, all I need to do is go climbing with him, and job done...”

“Pregnancy scare?” I said, somewhat surprised.

“Hypothetically speaking,” said Ruth with a wink at Charlize.

“You know you have this string of weedy boyfriends, and all the time there's Tim the hunk sitting just under your nose...” said Charlize. 

“Yes, but he's taken. And he's my mate. No way am I risking my friendship with the best climbing partner I've ever had. Boyfriends are ten a penny, a guy you'd trust on the Walker Spur is one in a million.”

Boromir looked torn between taking a fit of the vapours himself (huh, calls himself a warrior but he can't handle the thought of a little perfectly natural blood) and slightly shocked interest in the idea that Ruth might be in a position to worry about pregnancy. The initially greenish tinge to his cheeks gradually turned slightly pink.

Bodily functions aside, the other thing that was making our progress particularly tortuous was that Boromir just would not stop talking about Éowyn. I was beginning to see Frodo's point. The other two, unfortunately, seemed to be hell-bent on encouraging him. Apparently they thought it was “sweet”. Some hours of psychological warfare later, Ruth made a rather unexpected discovery.

“You mean you've never slept with anyone?”

“No. I am of the house of Hurin. The Numenorean blood runs strong in my veins, and we have ever modelled our behaviour on that of the Eldar,” Boromir said, a little pompously.

Charlize looked rather confused. “What do you mean? What have Elves got to do with it?”

“He's been reading _LaCE_ ,” Ruth explained. Charlize was none the wiser for this explanation, which accounted for the totally random nature of her next words...

“What, the Shirley Conran '80s bonkbuster? My mum's got a copy of that...”

“No, _Laws and Customs of the Eldar_ ,” said Ruth with a shake of her head. “Kind of like an Elven equivalent of Vatican II. No sex till you're married, sex for procreation only, no more sex ever once you've completed your family.” Boromir turned rather pink, and opened and shut his mouth a couple of times as if not quite sure whether to share his thought processes with us.

“Actually,” he said, in a quiet, rather embarrassed voice, “I had copies of both. One to inform my morals, and the other so that despite having informed my morals, my other bits knew what to do when the time came...”

~o~O~o~

Eventually, tired and footsore we made our way up to the gates of Edoras. I'd been fretting over how to introduce us to the Rohirrim, but it turned out that Leggy, Gimli and the light-fingered heir of Isildur had beaten us there. As they showed us into the Golden Hall, Boromir finally caught a glance of the shieldmaiden of his dreams, tall, slender and commanding, golden hair flowing down her back, glinting in the firelight. He stood there looking completely poleaxed.

“Boromir,” hissed Ruth. “Shut your mouth. You look a right gormless dweeb.”

Éowyn turned to face us. Her stern gaze passed over us, one by one, not lingering on Boromir any longer than the rest of us. Then her eyes gazed upon Aragorn, and her face softened. A longing look came into her face. A look which, from the sharp intake of breath from my left was anything to go by, had not gone unnoticed by Boromir.

“Oh bugger,” whispered Ruth, “That's one bit of canon we could live without at this point.”

~o~O~o~

It was Gimli who, quite inadvertently, saved the day. We were sitting in the sunshine outside the hall with Boromir and Éowyn. Gandalf was still inside the hall, “taking counsel” with Théoden, and Legolas and Aragorn had gone to the armoury to check out the weaponry on offer. Gimli had said he'd stay here because they were unlikely to find anything that would fit a dwarf: most of the armour would be too big and the the codpieces would be too small. Legolas rolled his eyes and muttered something along the lines of “certainly not big enough to accommodate your ego.” As the Man and the Elf disappeared Gimli grinned.

“Hopefully he'll find some vambraces of his own and stop trying to nick other people's.”

Éowyn's brows knitted together in a frown. “I hope you jest, Master Dwarf.”

“Nay lass, when we thought Boromir here was dead, our grubby ranger friend had the vambraces off him in a trice. His body wasn't even cold.”

“Largely because I wasn't dead,” said Boromir grumpily.

“He stole your vambraces?” said Éowyn, her voice rising to a shriek. “HE STOLE YOUR VAMBRACES? THE BASTARD!”

“Exactly what I said to him,” said Boromir, suddenly looking rather more cheerful than he'd done at any point in the previous hour.

“If there's one thing I really can't stand, it's a thief. I've had five bloody years of Wormtongue, nicking ribbons, bits of jewellery, scarves... the slimeball even nicked my small clothes from the laundry...”

“He nicked your knickers,” said Charlize and dissolved into giggles.

Éowyn shot her a look that could kill. There was a moment's awkward silence. Then suddenly Éowyn started to laugh, little giggles at first, gradually building to great belly laughs.

“Oh my, I've hardly laughed at all in the last five years,” she said with a great snort. Then just as abruptly she burst into tears. Charlize scooted over next to her and put her arms round her. Boromir looked on with a worried frown and an expression of helplessness. Charlize held her and patted her back while the shieldmaiden sobbed. Eventually the sobs subsided, and Éowyn looked up. Gimli surprised all of us by pulling out a clean handkerchief and offering it to her.

“Sorry, you've no idea how awful it's been, having Grima chasing me,” said Éowyn, still sounding shaky.

“Well, lass, he's been kicked down the steps of the Golden Hall and sent off to Saruman with his tail between his legs,” said Gimli.

“And we'll be here with you if he ever comes back,” said Boromir. I had to hand it to him; he had the sense not to come over all romantic. Given the state the poor woman was in, he was going to have to be very, very patient.

As the others tried to cheer Éowyn up by chatting about more cheerful things, like sword length and axe sharpness, Ruth drew me to one side.

“You realise we've buggered up the plot again,” she said.

“How so?” I asked.

“Well, in the books Éowyn goes off seeking death or glory, preferably death and glory, because of unrequited love. How are we going to get her to the Pelennor fields without her pining for Aragorn?”

“Oh dear!” was all I could think of to say.

“Don't worry, we've got the battle of Helm's Deep to come yet. Plenty of time to think of something,” said Ruth.

“Agh, pointy arrows again. Baggsie the caves with the women and children,” I answered.


	14. Comradely Friendships

“Ouch!” Boromir was showing me how to sharpen a sword with an oil stone. I sucked the blood from the cut.

“You're meant to run the blade across the stone, not across your finger,” he said.

“Know it all,” I answered.

“So,” said Legolas, his blond head bent over the arrows he was checking for damage, “Do you think we're in book-verse or movie-verse?”

“What, you mean you know the difference?” said Charlize.

“Oh yes, well, Gimli, Aragorn, Boromir and I do. The hobbits are in blissful ignorance. And I think Éowyn's in denial.”

“In denial?” asked Charlize.

“Yes,” said Aragorn, “She's had so much horrible stuff happen to her in Tolkien's original world – parents dying, Grima pawing his grubby hands all over her, now her cousin dying. She can't cope with the extra shit the fan-ficcers pile on top of her... Faramir two-timing her with me, being fem-slashed with Arwen, that strange faction of teenage girls who hate her for no reason I've never been able to identify, not to mention the other, even less savoury fics. She and Éomer see a therapist a couple of times a week about that, when they're in limbo between fics. So when she's in a fic, she just goes into this state where she pretends it's all real – in fact I think for the duration of the fic, she really thinks it is real. Most of the time at any rate. Very occasionally, when it gets too ridiculous, she sometimes breaks out – like with the ' _I've been a vair, vair naughty girl_ ' joke. But mostly I think she's in denial.”

“Oh,” said Charlize, looking very upset. “Gosh, I though she seemed on the brink of losing it yesterday. Now I know a bit more, I'm surprised she hasn't gone completely bonkers.”

“This time, though, it's all going to be okay,” said Boromir, firmly. “I will look after her. While respecting her autonomy of course. And encouraging her to find self realisation through chopping the bad guys' heads off in battle.”

“Ruth,” I said accusingly, “You've loaned Boromir your copy of Betty Friedan, haven't you.”

“What if I have?” said Ruth, defensively.

“Anyway, this is all a bit beside the point,” said Charlize. “What I really want to know is how, if you know the plot, or rather, the two plots, you don't end up messing things up?”

“Well, we know the plot, but we can't actually change it unless the author chooses to change it – usually through the OCs, but sometimes through one of us,” Aragorn explained. “Like almost happened with Boromir... Brilliant move, by the way, Boromir,” he continued, turning to the Gondorian. “You survived the lure of the ring and the orc attack but kept the plot on track.”

Boromir looked a bit baffled. “What did I do?”

“Well, you still scared Frodo off,” Aragorn said.

“How? I didn't do anything.”

“You bored him into fleeing across the Emyn Muil and Dagorlad.”

“I bored him?” Boromir looked really baffled.

“I think,” I said gently, “What Aragorn's trying to say is that, dearly as we love you, the way you're mooning over Éowyn might be getting a little bit much. Just a tiny bit...”

Boromir looked quite crestfallen. “Do you all think that?” He glanced round the group anxiously.

“We don't,” said Charlize. “Me 'n' Ruth think it's really sweet.”

Boromir looked round the rest of the group. Gimli shook his head. “Nay, lad, I'm afraid you are a bit soppy.”

“Sez you, sitting there braiding your boyfriend's hair,” said Charlize. Legolas smirked, and continued repairing the fletches on his arrows.

“Still,” said Gimli from behind the Elf's back, fingers woven in his silken locks, “we still haven't established whether we're in book or movie verse.”

From the window behind us, we could hear Théoden's deep voice, explaining something in Rohirric. Charlize quirked an eyebrow, then frowned as she tried to concentrate. Clearly the hours with Sweet's _Anglo-Saxon Primer_ had paid off. Suddenly an ear-piercing noise rent the air, somewhere between a shriek and a bellow.

“WHAT DO YOU MEAN I'VE GOT TO STAY IN THE CAVES WITH THE WOMENFOLK?” It was Éowyn's voice.

“Movie-verse, then,” said Aragorn, “Brace yourself for her cookery.”

~o~O~o~

And that's how we found ourselves having to do yet more long-distance hiking across Rohan. Ruth had fallen into step with a tall, blond woman of a certain age. She told us in that her name was Earcongota, then proceeded to tell us her life story.

“My mother was a Rohir who went to Lamedon to earn her living as servant girl. Shortly before her death, she told me her tragic life story. One day, the Lord of the Manor came upon her. He said, 'You were trespassing in my garden. Now you will have to pay for it, BUAHAHAH!'”

Ruth and I managed with some difficulty to stifle our giggles at the evil laugh. Earcongota, unaware of the incipient giggles, but sensing an appreciative audience, carried on with her tale, and her next words made us wonder if her mother had in fact been created by one of the Muriels. 

“The maiden shivered at what she saw in his eyes. It was animal lust. He would take her here and now, on the lawn, leaving difficult to remove green stains from her dress of imported Khand silk, with a delicate green pattern inlaid with gold thread which matched her green eyes with golden accents which stood out when she was mirthful... And so on and so forth ...”

I stifled a laugh at the gratuitous 'and so on and so forth.' Then I couldn't help it. My mind was off and running like a greyhound out of the traps, riffing on the strange description Earcongota had just presented us with. There was the question of exactly what the words "stood out" cross-referred to? Her eyes (in my imagination now popping out on stalks in all their green and gold flecked glory)? Or their accent? How did eyes have an accent? Was it a Sheffield accent? Actually talking of accents, the weirdest thing of the lot was that Earcongota had a faint Texas twang. At this point I started to laugh for real, and tried to cover it with a fit of fake hiccups.

Nothing daunted, the blonde woman continued. “It is from my father that I inherited my heliotrope eyes...” (Definitely a left-over from a Muriel story, I thought, shoving my fist into my mouth and trying not to let my shoulders shake visibly).

Ruth came to my rescue. “So how did you end up back in Rohan?”

“When my mother realised that her dishonour would lead to a baby, she came home. I was the result, some nine months later. Fortunately the Rohirrim are much more understanding about that sort of thing that Gondorians. So, despite my lowly birth, I trained with the village wise woman and became a Piss Prophetess. Such was my skill that I was sent to Minas Tirith to study, and then returned to become the Royal Piss Prophetess at the Golden Hall.”

“If you don't mind me asking, what is a Piss Prophetess?” asked Ruth, politely. A lot more politely than I could have managed at this point.

“When a woman thinks she may be pregnant, I get her to piss on some ribbons. Then I burn them. I can tell from the smell whether she is pregnant or not,” said Earcongota. “I also supply herbs to help girls who wish to avoid pregnancy.” Ruth and I shared a look: we remembered the placebo effect from my encounter with the Lothíriels. “And I have other herbs that will deal with an unwanted pregnancy. Though if I was in Gondor, they would insist I had admitting privileges at the Houses of Healing before I could do that last bit.”

At this point, Marshal Elfhelm rode past. Earcongota gave a huge sigh. “Oh, is he not the most beautiful specimen of a man you have ever seen?” Ruth and I looked at each other, and the glance we exchanged was sufficient to establish that Earcongota had no competition to worry about as far as the two of us were concerned. “At one point I had a bit of a thing going with him. But alas, he cares not for the smell of singed ribbons soaked in urine...”

I decided enough was enough. “It's lovely to have met you,” I said, “But I've just remembered I need to talk to Lord Aragorn about something. So if you'd please excuse me...” Ruth sent a pleading glance my way, but I wasn't about to hang around. I dropped back a bit down the long line of people. Aragorn, Boromir and Éomer were riding side-by-side.

“We may have to go on a quick sortie to do some scouting,” Aragorn was in the process of saying to Éomer. “Want to come along? Safety in numbers and all that?”

“Oh, gosh, I suppose you can never be too careful with all these orcs around,” I said, feeling suddenly extremely worried for them, not least because I'd just remembered the warg attack and Aragorn's fall from the cliff earlier in the movie-verse version. What if we were in for another one of those?

“Not so much orcs,” said Éomer. “More a matter of having a chaperone.”

“A chaperone?” I said. This was really getting weird now.

“Male friendships are very difficult in this world,” said Aragorn, shaking his head sadly. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I like all my friends enormously. But one-on-one time is always, well... it has you on edge. You think you're having a nice day out, I don't know, a ride amid the green trees of Ithilien with Faramir, a boat trip in the sunshine, the waves sparkling, with one of his cousins. But you just can't relax and enjoy it. Because you never know whether this is going to turn out to be a meandering story of platonic friendship, or whether one of you is suddenly going to end up pinning the other to the ground and ravishing him. It means you can't enjoy it at all.”

“Oh, I see,” I said. “Actually, no, I don't see. Surely you know whether you're gay or not in any given fic.”

“Well, not necessarily. You see, all love stories, specially a half-way decent smutty one, require the author to build up loads of... what's it called again, Éomer?”

“UST – unresolved sexual tension,” the Horselord supplied.

“That's right, UST. And one of the ways of doing that is to have the two protagonists never having fallen for another man before, so at first they think it's just friendship, then each of them individually realises how they feel, then they fight against their feelings for a while, then they agonise over the fact that they don't think the other one could possibly feel that way, and so on and so forth.” (There seemed to be a lot of “and so on and so forth” going on today, I noted). “So those late night sessions looking through legal documents with your Steward by the light of the fire in your chambers which culminate in the two of you falling asleep, with his head nestled on your shoulder, your hand somehow entangled in his hair... well you never quite know whether they're platonic or going somewhere. Especially when some of the writers of the platonic stuff are so innocent they unwittingly give their stories really suggestive names even though they don't intend them to be suggestive.”

“And don't get me onto the subject of shared baths,” said Boromir with a shudder.

“Or being wounded and taking shelter in caves...” said Éomer. “Actually, even though that one was written tongue in cheek I still ended up... actually, never mind what I ended up doing, or with whom.” I could have sworn he cast a quick glance sideways at Boromir and blushed. 

“I mean, it's not so much the being gay that bothers us,” Aragorn explained. “I mean, that's fine. It's the not knowing that does your head in – the way you think you're in one kind of fic and suddenly find you're in a different kind entirely... or not. The uncertainty really gets to you after a while.”

At this point, Legolas and Gimli rode up. Boromir whispered to me in an undertone, “You know, I think Gimli just pretends to be frightened of horses so he's got an excuse to cuddle Legolas.”

“You know,” Eomer said reflectively, “Having said all that, I think I'd still rather be taken unawares by the occasional bit of stealth-slash than be in Leggy's position – implicitly gay in canon, but continually paired up with Muriel self-inserts.”

Aragorn and Éomer explained the need for a quick reconnaissance mission, and the Elf and Dwarf agreed to go along. Having escaped chaperone duties, Boromir surreptitiously dropped back a bit in the long file of refugees, to where Éowyn was walking. I eavesdropped as best I could from a distance. As far as I could tell, he'd asked her about horse breeding, and she was telling him in great detail about the Mearas, and different blood lines, and so on, a happy smile on her face. Every so often he'd ask her a reasonably intelligent question, and she'd smile again, and carry on with the lecture. She looked genuinely happy and Boromir looked delighted. I had to give it to him: he was (as my older brother would put it) playing a blinder. He'd got her engaged in conversation without scaring her off, and had come up with a topic which cheered her up.

The only slight fly in the ointment appeared that night, as Éowyn doled out bowls of stew to everyone. However, once more I had to admit to a certain awestruck admiration at the level of thought Charlize had put into the preparations for our journey. When Éowyn was safely out of sight, she ferreted around in her rucksack for a moment, then produced a bottle of tabasco sauce which she shared round.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy Ginger asked to be put into the fic,so here she is, Earcongota - back-story kindly supplied by QueefQueen.


	15. Epistolatory Information

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular chapter is Tommy Ginger's. Earcongota, the Piss Prophetess, received such rave reviews in the last chapter, I thought you would like to hear straight from the horse's mouth (Mearas, natch).

Much to my delight (I think) I have actually received an e-mail from the Piss Prophetess, which I include in this chapter as a matter of historical record.

~o~O~o~

And I'll have you know...there is FAR more to being a good piss prophetess than just my work in the field of obstetrics and gynaecology. I can diagnose all kinds of ailments just by having a look, a smell....and sometimes a TASTE...of your piss. Also...I would never use anything as gauche as "rags" – I am the ROYAL piss prophetess of Rohan and I would never have my ladies tt on anything less than ribbon. ( with me in attendance....this may explain why poor old King Teddy was enchanted/poisoned for so long)

Would it help if I sent you a copy of my CV? I actually studied "lady parts" with THE Dr. Boromir Hurin...specializing in his advanced method of birth prevention known as "pull 'n pray".....though he often argued with his assistant Dr. Éomer Eorl about just which one of them first pioneered the field.

I was first ushered into the craft of piss propheteering by none other than the great Piss Prophet himself, Freodwine Bog-Boffin. I was apprenticed to Sir BB from the age of 8 years ( being the product of a series of unfortunate events all stemming from lawn trespass...that was a perfectly suitable age). For my first years, my duties were really those of observer, though it was also my job to make sure we had the proper amounts of grain on hand....and to keep meticulous track of just who peed on which bags of grain as we waited for them to sprout – you can't imagine the cock-up it would cause should one lady find herself with a false positive or false negative. I also was responsible for keeping the ribbons all cut to the regulation length and on occasion I was used as the official "piss taster" – virgins show a particular knack for piss-tasting, for some reason.

When I was 14 I was sent to study in Gondor's famed Houses of Healing ( though I would have preferred an internship with the elves --- no one knows piss like the elves). That is where I first came to specialize in not only the DETECTION of pregnancy....but its various forms of prevention.

After 4 years in Gondor....I came back and have been at the Golden Hall ever since. I pride myself that no royal piss has been eyeballed, sniffed or sipped by anyone BUT me for over a decade. I would no doubt have been quite content to live out the rest of my life as the Royal PP of teetee......untl the day I first set eyes on "him"....and my heart was never mine again. ( heavy, dramatic sigh)

**  
On with the plot in the next chapter – what will happen to our unlikely trio at Helm's Deep? Will Earcongota be on hand to tend to the wounded? If it's movie-verse does this mean we have lots of gratuitous elven additions to the cast? Can we save Haldir too? Do we want to? Tune in next... whenever... for the next exciting episode.**


	16. Surfing Down the Stairs on a Shield

**  
In which we inadvertently acquire a 13th walker of a rather unique kind.**

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Do I look stupid enough to surf down a flight of stairs on a shield? (Quietly forgets about the epic party during my student days where we surfed down the stairs on an upside-down ironing board).**

**The latest in my attempt to crowd-source a fic: thanks to TG for Haldir's backstory,QueefQueen for our latest cast addition, and Stormwalker for coming up the bifurcating universes idea... and of course to the Black Sheep Brewery for producing my favourite bitter which I am savouring in an effort to unwind after looking after five small boys single-handedly earlier on today.  
**

 

The caves were not a whole lot of fun. Ruth and I found ourselves spending the time trying to comfort children and avoid Earcongota who, in between healing the wounded, bored us all senseless by lamenting the break-up of her relationship with Marshal Elfhelm. It was a bit like having a bad girl-band hit on continuous loop. (You know the kind... “I leurve you and you only, why did you leave? Was it because I had a momentary lapse where I ceased to resemble a doormat for a nano-second or so? Please, please, grovelling please, let me have another chance to be suitably abject and lacking in personality... And so on ad nauseam). It had to be admitted, however, that she was very good with a needle and thread and sewed up countless casualties who would otherwise have died. And her constant commentary about the wonders of Elfhelm wasn't actually quite as annoying (or at any rate, it was several tens of decibels quieter) than Éowyn's ongoing rant about being forced into the caves. It did not help Éowyn's mood that Charlize had been allowed onto the walls with the Elvish archers.

“Typical bloody tenth walker. I hate them,” the Shieldmaiden shouted. No amount of trying to persuade her that all would be fine and she'd get her chance of glory in the next battle could calm her down. Thank heavens for Boromir: somehow amidst the chaos, he found time to run to the caves. He tossed Éowyn a shield and helm (she already wore a corselet of mail and carried her sword) before the two of them ran out again and up the steps towards the battle. Éowyn's face glowed with happiness at the thought of being taken seriously as a warrior. Boromir's face was lit from within by the joy of having made Éowyn happy. My face, at a guess, probably showed slight tinges of nausea.

“Aw, sweet,” Ruth said. I presumed she wasn't talking about my malachite complexion. Meanwhile, though Éowyn's ranting had been taken out of the equation, Earcongota was still pining. 

“Please, after this is over, get your copy of Betty Friedan back from Boromir and teach that woman a bit of self respect,” I muttered.

“Actually, I think for Earcongota, nothing short of Erica Jong or Germaine Greer will do,” Ruth said. “Mmm, definitely Jong: the zipless...”

“Thank you,” I said, trying to stop her going any further down that line... she'd shown me that passage back in the summer.

“God, you're so prissy,” Ruth grumbled. “Anyway, after the battle's over, we'll have a good old 70s style consciousness-raising session.”

~o~O~o~

At last the battle was over. We emerged blinking into the morning light. As luck would have it, the very first person we encountered was Charlize. Carrying her bow, she came running towards us at full pelt.

“It was awesome. I shot at least three orcs. And Legolas really did surf down the stairs. He was brilliant. Though he nearly lost the plot when he thought Gimli was injured – it was so sweet when he realised that, though head wounds bleed like crazy, his dwarf was okay.”

Behind her, three familiar figures hove into view... Gimli, Legolas and... Haldir. Ruth ran towards them.

“Haldir, you're alive!”

Haldir looked as unruffled and impassive as ever. “It was a close call. An Uruk nearly skewered me, but Boromir caught him from behind and sliced him from nave to chaps before he could get to me.” Ruth and I exchanged a look – how come Haldir was quoting Shakespeare? Just how non-canon was this going. At the first opportunity, we were going to have to talk this through with Aragorn. As if on cue, our human friends appeared from the other direction. Aragorn looked as in control as ever, if slightly grubby, Éowyn's face was flushed with pleasure at having managed to sneak into the thick of battle, and Boromir walked just behind her, looking as though he was floating clear of the ground.

Everything degenerated into a hubbub of voices as everyone tried to swap their cool combat stories at the same time. Eventually, the various combatants seemed to calm down a bit. Éowyn went off to sharpen her sword, Boromir trotting at her heels like a devoted spaniel. Legolas and Gimli went off to comb each other's hair or some such. I didn't think I wanted the details. Haldir went off to do whatever Elves do – the ones that aren't in cross-species relationships with Dwarves, that is.

The three of us sat down with Aragorn.

“So, has everything got screwed up by Haldir surviving? I mean, now that we're in movie-verse?” Ruth asked.

“Difficult to say. I feel as though we may have spawned multiple futures, where everything is uncertain,” Aragorn replied.

“A bit like the many worlds theory Legolas' quantum cosmologist Sue came across,” said Ruth, thoughtfully. “So we could end up with a situation where there's kind of overlapping possibilities – a kind of Schrodinger's cat-quest, and we won't know what happens till we get to look at the end of the story.”

“I haven't a clue what you're talking about,” said Aragorn.

“Don't worry, neither do we,” Charlize said. “But what about Haldir? What's next for him?”

“Well, I would guess he'll be feeling very relieved, and happy to be going home to Loth Lorien and Barry.”

“BARRY?” we all said in unison.

“Yeah, poor Haldir,” said Aragorn. “He's not even supposed to be at the goddamn Helms Deep. And if it's not bad enough that PJ turned him into a corpse, on top of that he has to cope with the fact that an army of fangirls have been concocting one horrible tale after another where they save him--him...THE Marchwarden of the Golden Wood....saved by girls with hello-kitty stationary. Ah, 'tis sad...'tis sad. His dignity has suffered greatly. Of course...there are a few fics that have him having wild, passionate grudge-sex-turning-to-love with Eowyn....but even those are only momentary respites. You see, Haldir has been very happily bonded with another elf named Barry for the last 487 years. He doesn't even LIKE girls....human, elvish or otherwise. They do not come with the right parts...if you know what I mean.”

“But... 'Barry'?” I said. “It's such an un-Elvish name.”

“Short for Baranielion,” said Aragorn. “Though I suspect, given the number of syllables, that his character may originally have been dreamed up by a Muriel or...” (he shuddered) “...a Shirley.”

~o~O~o~

The weirdest bit of the aftermath of the battle involved two characters I hadn't expected to see ever again. Charlize took us up onto the walls to see the scenes of her triumph. And there, with a bow each, were Haradrim assassin Lothíriel and Hephaistion. Just as we rounded the tower and came upon them from one direction, from round the tower in the other direction Éomer suddenly appeared. There was one of those really, really awkward silences. Eventually Éomer spoke. I recognised that air of quiet desperation. The one you get the Monday morning at school when you have to face the boy you've had a hopeless crush on for the last 18 months. And the girl you had to watch him cop off with at a party on Saturday night.

“So, uh, Hephaistion, Lothíriel. How are you both?”

“Fine, fine, you know, just hanging out, trying to shoot a few orcs, the usual,” Lothíriel said, in a sort of fake-casual voice.

“Oh, that's good...” said Éomer, adding, apparently as an afterthought, “Hacked a few myself earlier today...”

“Oh great, good to see you doing well,” Lothíriel said.

“Yeah, well, uh, good to see you.” Éomer's voice tailed off, a study in abject embarrassment. 

“Yeah, you too, mate, you too,” said Hephaistion, reaching out and grasping Éomer's forearm in a warrior's salute. Éomer almost seemed to flinch, as if Hephaistion's hand was red-hot. I was somewhat struck by the contrast between new, butch, blokey Hephaistion and the somewhat (somewhat? make that very) camp version who had called “Yoo hoo” and sashayed across the plains of Rohan a few chapters back. Which one was the real one? And if the blokey-ness was only put on, what did the future hold for Lothíriel?

“Uh, okay, well, see you,” said Éomer, and sloped off round the tower behind us. Lothíriel and Hephaistion set off in the opposite direction, leaving us standing around feeling like right spare parts.

“Well, that was a bit embarrassing,” said Ruth.

“Yes, poor Éomer, he was meant to marry Lothíriel eventually,” I said.

Ruth and Charlize exchanged another of their looks. Then Charlize said, as if trying to change the subject, “You never told me she was a dead ringer for Ziva from NCIS.”

~o~O~o~

I was feeling more than a little bit sick – Charlize and I were searching the battlefield. Fortunately no-one expected us to move dead bodies. But we'd been given the job of collecting any stray bits of weaponry and armour. Now, you may have all sorts of 21st century qualms about not despoiling the dead. Believe me, in a Medieval-type society where ironmongery is in short supply, no-one, but no-one, shares your qualms. Here, sending the two of us out to collect useful stuff was about as big a deal as mum asking me to take the green bin out on a Tuesday night ready for the bin-lorry the next day. So we were picking our way through the carnage trying to manage the contradictory tasks of not looking too closely at it while keeping a reluctant corner of an eye open for anything that might be useful.

Suddenly we heard a low, growling groan from somewhere to our left. We wheeled round, and saw a body somewhere towards the bottom of a heap of corpses. To our horror, it gave a twitch. Slowly, it shoved arms and legs out the way – not all of them still attached to their owners, and levered itself into a sitting position. We found ourselves face-to-face with a huge Uruk Hai. It was huge, ugly and scarred, and strangely, bore more than a trace of adolescent acne. Then it spoke, its voice a low, earthy rumble, as if ripped from the very stones of the earth.

“Shit, why did I ever leave Milton Keynes?”

“You, you, you...” said Charlize. “Milton Keynes? You're from our world!”

“How on earth did you end up in the body of an Uruk?” I asked.

“Bloody hell, a couple of Mancs!” the Uruk said in amazement. “Please tell me you're not Reds.”

“Do you mind?” said Charlize, in a tone of outrage. “We _live_ in Manchester. Course we're not United fans. City all the way.”

“Speak for yourself,” I muttered. “Spurs, me.”

“Didsbury,” said Charlize, by way of explanation. “I'm Charlize, and this is Sophie. So, what are you called?”

“Darren,” said the enormous monster. I couldn't help it. I laughed.

“Oh go on, go pull the whole snobby line about me being called Darren,” said the Uruk angrily.

“Sorry, it's just the idea of an Uruk Hai... I can just hear your company commander counting you all back from a battle – Shagrat, Lurz, Grishnakh, Darren.”

“Yeah, very funny... Not!” said Darren. “Grishnakh was a friend of mine.” He pointed behind us. “That's his arm over there. And I am just fed up to the back teeth with people making assumptions about me because I'm called Darren.”

“Tell me about it,” Charlize said. “The maths teacher asks me my name at the beginning of the school year, I tell her, I watch her mentally knock 30 points off my IQ.”

“And they even make jokes about it!” the Uruk added. “I once helped the drama teacher back to the staff room with a big box of stage props. They had a cartoon on the wall. _The four horsemen of the Apocalypse: War, Famine, Wayne and Darren_. A sodding cartoon taking the piss out of their students, in the bloody staffroom.”

“So, how on earth did you end up in the body of an Uruk at the battle of Helm's Deep?” I asked.

“Well, I was looking for something to read, and I remembered my best mate mentioning that his mum had had this really racy book called _Lace_. So I went to look and see if my mum had a copy. And she did, so I sat down to read it. But it was all about Elves and how they weren't allowed to have sex till they were married. And eventually I realised it was about that film we've got on DVD, the Lord of the Rings. So you've got all these blokes that no woman could resist, but they're not allowed to get off with anyone. Not without putting a ring on her finger first. And they're like so clean and look like they spend half their lives at the hairdresser. That's just poncey, that is. But I remembered that there were some Elves who were only like half Elves and I figured that might be the way to go. Good looking but with a bit of a rough edge, and an outside chance of getting some action without having to get married first. 

“Anyway, at the weekend, me and my mate Wayne...” I snorted, and Charlize and Darren glared at me. “We went down the park and got pissed on Diamond White.”

“Classy,” said Charlize.

“Yeah, bet you'd have gone for Lambrini,” said Darren. Charlize blushed, no doubt remembering a party we'd been to the term before last. “Anyway, on the way home, I was cutting across one of the roundabouts – Milton Keynes is all roundabouts – and I must of passed out. All I remember is seeing a shooting star and thinking to myself... I could wish on a shooting star. So I did. I wished for 'S _lightly pointed ears and a nice masculine, haven't washed for a few days and don't care attitude._ ' And then I came to, in the body of an Uruk.”


	17. Casting Issues

And so the road show moved on towards Isengard. Our numbers were a bit thinned out. Now that both Boromir and Haldir had survived and the plot was hanging suspended delicately between book-verse, movie-verse and complete chaos, everything was up for grabs. Théoden, deciding he quite liked book-verse, sent Éowyn off to keep an eye on things at Meduseld. Boromir, cleverly arguing that his presence wasn't vital, since he hadn't been at Isengard in either version, went with her. Despite our initial inclination to go with them to see if we could help on the match-making front, we found ourselves tagging along with the main group (as did Haldir, who expressed a most un-Elven desire to be able to go “ner ner nee ner nerr” to Saruman). For the time being though, I was quite enjoying the light-hearted banter between Legolas and Gimli as we rode through the woods.

“Whoever wrote this was good,” I said. “Much lighter touch than the humour in the film dialogue.” 

Ruth fixed me with an icy look. “That's Tolkien's original dialogue. And yes, Legolas and Gimli are funny together, but in a light-hearted, genuinely witty way, not in a Captain Obvious meets the cardboard cutout cliché Scotsman sort of way.”

Charlize sniggered at me. “I thought you were the one who was always going on about how you'd actually read the books.” Darren gave a quiet snort. At least, I think it would have come out as a quiet snort back in Milton Keynes. Now he was in the body of an Uruk, it was more of a trumpet fanfare. I decided to ignore him.

“Well, it was a while ago,” I said sheepishly.

After a few hours, we stopped for lunch. Darren gnawed at some beef jerky, I munched some waybread while Ruth and Charlize discussed their favourite topic: how things were likely to work out between Éowyn and Boromir.

“Trouble is, we don't know who his competition is, Bookamir or Moviemir,” said Ruth.

“Does it matter?” grunted Darren through a mouthful of jerky.

“Course it matters,” said Charlize. “If it's Moviemir, Boromir is toast. Six foot of hot, hunky, Aussie masculinity.”

“Of dubious morals, without the complexity and depth of characterisation of Bookamir. And totally wooden. No-one should let that guy loose on anything other than 20th century stuff he can do in his own accent. On the other hand, Bookamir, the one character who can resist the ring, is thoughtful, sensitive and a brilliant captain,” said Ruth.

“Yeah, but aren't you forgetting something? We're talking sex-appeal here, and virtue doesn't tick many boxes on that front.” I could have been wrong, but I'm sure I saw Darren twitch a pointy ear and raise an eyebrow at this. I decided to file this observation away for future consideration. 

“Oh no, not the tired old 'nice guys are dull, only bad boys are sexy' stereotype. Bookamir is a warrior, a reluctant, thoughtful one yes, but still pretty damn masculine.”

“Where do you get that theory from? I mean, I can back my opinion up with evidence.” Charlize leant over and whispered something in Ruth's ear. Darren's ears twitched. I got the distinct idea that Orc hearing was much better than human hearing, and whatever it was Charlize had said had got him very interested indeed.

“You're not meant to have watched that, it's an 18 certificate.”

“Well, I have, and if we're in movie-verse, then that's what Boromir's up against. And you have to admit, it's a damn pert specimen. What can the book offer by way of competition?”

“Well, for starters, even if he is Moviemir, have you never watched 'Sharpe'? I know which one I'd do. But in any case, back with CANON,” Ruth's voice rose to emphasise her superior credentials, “Here's what Éowyn supposedly thinks first time she sees Bookamir: _Bred among men of war, she knew that here was one whom no Rider of the Mark could match in battle_ , or something to that effect.” 

“So? Yadda yadda yadda, Bookamir's a good warrior? So what?” Charlize said dismissively.

“God, you really don't do subtlety, do you? Read between the lines. It means the first moment she looked at him she realised he was sex on legs. Given Tolkien's very understated approach to sexual attraction that line's equivalent to shoving him to the ground and nailing him there and then. Her hormones definitely got with the programme from the get-go. It just took a while for her brain to catch up.”

“You get all that from one line? Man, that makes Arwen's Derridan interpretations positively tame by comparison,” Charlize said. My jaw hit the floor. This parallel universe was really getting out of hand: Charlize was discussing literary theory with Ruth. We were getting totally detached from reality here. And Darren was clearly hanging on their every word, looking (if Uruks could manage it) gobsmacked. I began to realise that for all his bravado, Darren didn't actually know much about women. His facial expression made me suspect that he'd never contemplated the possibility that women could be just as interested in men's, er, pertness as he was in women's. I decided I'd really lost patience with the whole thing.

“If I could maybe interrupt for a moment and summarise the discussion so far,” I said, “What you're both saying is that, actually, either way, Boromir's stuffed.” Charlize and Ruth both opened their mouths as if to say something, then seemed to think better of it. Then almost in synchrony, they nodded sadly.

~o~O~o~

You all know roughly what happened at Orthanc. I suppose the only bit that needs real clarification is that Grima didn't meet an unpleasant end this time round – so far, so book-verse. The Palantir came sailing through the air, Peregrin got to it first, he tried to snaffle it from Gandalf in the middle of the night, all hell broke lose, Gandalf headed off to Gondor with Pippin hanging on his coat tails. I think Ruth was maybe a little disappointed not to contrive some way of getting to go to Gondor too. I think she was itching to solve the Bookamir/Moviemir mystery. I was beginning to think (on the 50-50 chance it turned out to be Bookamir) that maybe that wasn't the only itch she had, and in fact she had a cunning plan of her own to try to help Boromir's romance along. But Gandalf didn't take her, so she was stuck with us.

~o~O~o~

It felt good to be back at Meduseld – almost like home. Pretty much the first thing we'd seen as we approached was Boromir, sitting on the low wall on the terrace, looking out over the plains. In his hand was his book of “poetry”. He mouthed “keep your distance” at us, looking rather frantic. Then, as if on cue, Eowyn appeared through the huge doors of the Golden Hall. Boromir ran his head through his hair, heaved a theatrical sigh, rested his forehead on the knuckles of his other hand, and pretended to be absorbed in the book. Eowyn gave him a quizzical, curious look, and approached. She paused beside him, and glanced over his shoulder.

“Oooh, _The young maid from Ulf Hoo_! That's one of my favourites,” said the Shieldmaiden. 

Boromir gave a start, and for a moment he looked utterly crestfallen. His attempt to cultivate an intellectual persona had been busted at the first attempt. Then he looked over his shoulder, and saw Éowyn's broad, happy grin, totally devoid of any hint of sarcasm, and I could see him melt on the spot. He shuffled up to make space for her, and she sat down next to him, and the next thing we knew, both of them were doubled up laughing.

The rest of us sat on the terrace. Suddenly, Haldir sat bolt upright. 

“By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes.”

“Haldir, what's with all the Shakespeare?” said Ruth.

“Sorry, since we got stuck in this strange mash-up of movie verse and book-verse, I've just had this irresistible urge to steal lines from, well, pretty much anywhere. I'm not sure I know who I am any more. It's driving Barry mad. But that aside, something wicked really is coming this way.”

Suddenly, a young woman appeared round the corner of the Hall. She wore brown buckskin breeches and a white linen shirt. Somehow, the breeches were cut just a little bit too tight, moulding themselves to her... pertness, the fabric of her shirt was just a little bit too clinging, the laces of the front just a little too low, showing a little bit too much breast. On her hip was a sword, and she carried herself with a military swagger.

“Oh, Eru and all the Valar.” Aragorn's voice came out in a huff of breath.

“Is she what I think she is?” said Legolas. Gimli put a reassuring hand on his arm.

“Wow, it's a real Mary Sue,” said Ruth.

“Yes, but not any old Sue,” said Aragorn. “It's that peculiar subspecies that haunts Rohan: the Éowyn-basher.” Ruth raised her eyebrows in an inquiring way, and Aragorn continued, “She fancies herself as better than Éowyn – hence the sword – and in direct competition with her. Basically wants to reduce Middle Earth to some sort of massive cat fight. Not that she has any genuine interest in sword fighting, or tactics, or going into battle – it's all just a means to an end to get off with whoever Éowyn's love interest at the time is.”

“She's spotted you,” said Legolas in a low voice. The Sue sashayed over to us.

“Lord Aragorn,” she cooed. “You'll be needing my company on the Paths of the Dead. Since Éowyn's going to have to stay behind in Meduseld because she isn't as good a swordsman as I am... And I'll be able to cook for you too, and I'm a much better cook than she is, and...”

She was interrupted by Aragorn looking pointedly over to the wall where Boromir and Éowyn sat, their heads close to one another as they pored over the book of limericks. 

“Oh, but I forgot, you're betrothed to Arwen. I would never interfere,” the Sue said sanctimoniously. “But poor old Boromir has no such prior attachment to prevent utterly unsuitable women getting their claws into him. I must go and rescue him.” She strode off.

“See what I mean – totally driven by competitiveness and the desire to grab a man as a trophy – now she knows the competition lies elsewhere, I'm off the radar completely,” said Aragorn.

“But... poor Éowyn... poor Boromir,” said Charlize.

“N'ah, just you sit back and watch the fun,” said Gimli.

The Sue arrived beside Éowyn and Boromir, and began to talk to Boromir as if Éowyn wasn't there. Boromir looked shocked and upset, and kept glancing at Éowyn with a desperate expression on his face. Éowyn looked crosser and crosser. Eventually, she tapped the Sue on the shoulder. The Sue turned to her, and started to talk to her. We were too far away to hear the words, but from the expression on her face, I could just imagine the hectoring tone.

Aragorn filled us in on what the dialogue was likely to consist of. “This is the point at which she starts to tell Éowyn how wrong it is for her to ride off to battle in a vainglorious attempt to win male approval, totally unaware of (a) the irony inherent in her (the Sue, that is) saying that and (b) the fact that Éowyn, having genuine psychological depth, is driven by an altogether more complicated set of motivations.”

Eowyn took a step backwards to get some more space around her, then made the universal gesture (at least, universal if you've watched enough kung fu/action movies) for “bring it, mutha,” palms upwards, fingers curling as if to say “come here and get your ass kicked”. The Sue made the mistake of going for it. Her hand went to the hilt of her sword, she took a step forward and tripped ingloriously over her scabbard. As she tumbled, Eowyn stepped deftly to one side, seized her by the scruff of the neck and used her momentum to pitch her over the wall. There was a screech then a squelch.

“Direct hit on the midden, from the sound of it,” said Éomer, approvingly. At the scene of the action, Boromir peered over the wall, his face splitting in a broad grin. He turned to Éowyn, a look of complete hero-worship on his face, and high-fived her.

~o~O~o~

Later in the afternoon, a troop of men on horseback approached Edoras, but quite different in appearance from the Rohirrim. They wore dark grey cloaks and were fell and sombre in appearance. As they entered the town through the gate in the walls, Aragorn watched from the wall above, then seeing their leaders dismount, ran down the stairs to greet them.

“ _Mae govannen, Halbarad, Elrohir, Elladan...Arwen?_ ” His voice rose half an octave in surprise. Ruth, Charlize and I watched in amazement as one of the riders' hoods fell back to reveal a stunningly beautiful woman. Nothing in either the films or in Tolkien's description could have prepared us for how she looked. Darren looked like he might faint. Then she spoke, in a musical, silvery voice that I will remember to my dying day.

“Well, darling, since we seem to be in the sort of fic where anything and everything is up for grabs, I thought I'd deliver the bloody dish cloth in person, and have a bit of fun. I'm well up for the paths of the dead.”

After we'd all been introduced, plans were made for the various parties to do their various things. It was agreed that Ruth, being acquainted with all kinds of nasties like the Furies, the Sirens, the Gorgon, the Minotaur and so on from her classical studies, was probably the only one of us who could handle accompanying Aragorn. Darren tried to persuade them to take him as well because he thought it would be “cool”; he was firmly but kindly told that a fondness for Shaun of the Dead did not necessarily translate into the ability to handle the Paths of the Dead. But instead, to my amazement, he, Charlize and I were told we could go with the Ride of the Rohirrim. However, our bubble was swiftly burst when it transpired that we were going along in the capacity of stable hands, and our main task was going to be shovelling shit. For her part, Éowyn nearly exploded with fury when Théoden told her she had to stay behind (again) to keep the home fires burning. In the light of this, Ruth and I grabbed Aragorn and Arwen.

“It's all going to go horribly wrong,” Ruth said. “You know you said that Éowyn was driven by a whole set of complex motivations? Well the main one – her massive, unrequited crush on you – has just vanished. How are we going to get her to ride to war now?”

We all turned and looked up at the terrace. We could see Boromir trying to comfort Éowyn who was still desperately upset. He whispered something in her ear, and suddenly there was a hint of a smile, and a little nod.

“You know,” said Arwen, “I think we can leave that particular bit of the plot in Boromir's capable hands.”


	18. The Ride of the Rag-Tag Hangers On

We had a last evening in Edoras before the Grey Company set off. Afterwards, we found Éowyn busy organising the separation of provisions into those to be packed and sent with the Riders, and those to be kept by for the civilian population should they have to take refuge inside the Golden Hall. She had been busy at this task for quite some time, and was happy to take a well earned rest.

“I really enjoyed watching you deal with that Mary Sue earlier on,” said Ruth. Éowyn beamed with pride.

“The squelch she made as she landed in the manure was really rather satisfying,” the Shieldmaiden said, sounding quite smug, as well she might. “Still, she was a bit hopeless. Fancy tripping over her own scabbard. And thinking she could score points by telling me how awful my cooking is... Do I look to you like the sort of woman who gives a stuff about what her cooking is like?”

A silvery voice drifted over from the other side of the hall. “Well, quite! 'Life's too short to stuff a mushroom'. Though, obviously in my case, only figuratively speaking.” We turned to see Arwen; obviously the rumours about keen Elven hearing were only too true. “A Mary Sue bitching session?” she added, raising an elegant dark eyebrow. Her voice took on a tone of mock solemnity. “Surely you remember what your granny used to say? If you can't say anything nice...” She patted the bench she was sitting on, and continued, “Come and sit next to me.”

We did. The Undomiel proved to have a remarkably ascerbic tongue. Her opening conversational gambit was to say, “You know, if all the Mary Sues in Middle Earth were laid end-to-end, I shouldn't be at all surprised.”

We chatted happily for quite some time. She and Ruth had great fun discussing postmodernism and film theory. Arwen seemed fascinated by our theory that we'd somehow got suspended between book-verse and movie-verse. She disagreed, however, that it was entirely driven by Haldir's survival. 

“Look at it this way – you were already in an ambiguous state before then. You, Éowyn, went to Helm's Deep with them, but you clearly had book-Legolas in tow.”

“Book Legolas?” said Charlize. “What makes you so sure?”

“Oh come on, you've listened to him bantering with Gimli. Amusing dry wit, almost world-weary some of the time, but at other times with almost a touching, wide eyed innocence, ready to embrace the wealth of new experiences offered by Middle Earth outside of Mirkwood. Now compare that to film Leggy – who runs the whole gamut of emotions from A to B.”

She even had some sage words of advice for Earcongota regarding Elfhelm's defection.

“When you swear that you are his, shivering and sighing,  
And he says his love for you is infinite, undying,  
Lady, make a note of this: One of you is lying!”

“God, that's cynical,” said Charlize. “Surely you can't mean that. I mean, you and Aragorn, you're one of the great love stories of all times.”

“Oh, don't get me wrong,” said Arwen, with one of her silvery laughs. “I love Aragorn to bits (even if he does need a bath at the moment, something I intend to rectify at the first opportunity). But love affairs don't always work out – you have to watch out that you don't buy the 'love conquers all' line and find yourself putting up with a whole world of crap rather than being realistic about things. So, my dear Lady Piss Prophetess, we all know you are head over heels for Elfhelm. Your feelings are beyond question, and it's touching that you are staying so true to him. But what you should ask yourself is: 'What has he done to deserve that?' And if, as I suspect, the answer is: 'not a whole lot,' then it's time you pulled yourself together and found someone who treats you like you deserve to be treated.”

Arwen, descendant of Luthien, daughter of Elrond, granddaughter of Galadriel, as part-time agony aunt. Who'd have thought?

~o~O~o~

The next morning the Grey Company were readying themselves to leave. Aragorn looked unusually clean, and rather less uptight than we'd come to expect; in fact, he looked almost relaxed. Arwen looked as serene as ever, but with a slightly broader smile than the night before. We went to say goodbye to Ruth before she left. She was chatting to Elrohir and Elladan when Charlize waved to attract her attention, and she came trotting over to us.

"You wanna watch yourself with them boys," said Earcongota, emotion making her Rohan/Texas twang more apparent. "I know their sort. They'd screw an adder if someone would hold the head..."

"What about LaCE?" I squeaked.

"They're half-elven," said Earcongota, darkly. "Ain't got no morals, them Pare-ed-heel.” I half expected her to spit at this point. “Cain't trust 'em no further'n you kin throw em......which ain't fer. "

"See, I knew I was onto something," said Darren. "If only I'd been sober enough to get my prayer to the Valar right..."

"Don't worry about me," said Ruth. "I'm a big girl... Irrumator and Raphanidon might worry me, but those two... just big pussy cats. Big, feral pussy cats, with a panther-like grace and wild animalistic promise and..."

"Ruth, T rated, remember?" I said, hastily. We all took it in turns to hug her, then she mounted her horse and set off with the rest of the grey company towards the Paths of the Dead.

~o~O~o~

Now it was time for us to gather together all our bits and pieces with a view to riding along behind the main muster. They would move much faster than us, but the idea was to secure some sort of supply line in case the besieging army turned out to be better dug in than our best hopes might lead us to expect. In the distance, near the front of the column of Riders, I could see Théoden and Éomer, though to my surprise I couldn't make out Boromir. My eyes scanned back along the line until (largely alerted by the fixed attention Earcongota was paying to one Rider in particular) I spotted Elfhelm. A little bit behind him I spotted a horseman wearing the grey cloak of Lothlorien with an unmistakable round shield slung across his back. Beside him, I noticed a slightly built Rider, rather smaller than the others, with a large lump covered in another of the grey cloaks behind the saddle. I smiled. Dernhelm had obviously been kitted out and was riding to war.

We jogged along in the wake of the main column, with a collection of sturdy pack animals laden with fodder, smithying equipment and the like. Our horses were, by Rohirrim standards, nags. I'd mentally nicknamed them Dobbin (the least useless), Pet Food and Glue Ingredients. As anticipated, a sizeable gap opened up over the course of the day, but by riding into the dusk, we caught up with the main body just before nightfall. There was clearly some sort of compromise between speed and having their horses in a fit state to rid into battle at the other end. Sophie and I set off to look for Elfhelm's battalion, accompanied by Darren (disguised as best we could with a cloak with the hood pulled forward; although most people knew about him, we didn't really want to take the chance of someone being over-keen with a spear). Eventually we spotted Boromir by the fire, with, next to him, a slender figure who also seemed to subscribe to the cloak-over-the-face school of sartorial elegance. Walkers ten, eleven and thirteen plonked ourselves down on the ground beside them.

“Nice one,” Sophie whispered quietly to the slender figure.

“This is Dernhelm,” said Boromir.

“Hiya, Dernhelm,” said Darren. “You one of Elfhelm's Riders, then?”

“Yes,” said Dernhelm, then coughed and said again in a much deeper voice, “Yes. One of his men, that's right, one of Elfhelm's men.”

“One of the best,” said Boromir, slapping Dernhelm's back. “Men, that is. One of the best of Elfhelm's Men. Uh... he's been telling me all about what it's like to be one of the guys round here. Very, um, manly, and all.”

Darren grinned happily. “Oh, man, you have no idea how nice it is to get the chance to talk to another couple of blokes after several days with the girls here. They just don't appreciate a good fart joke.”

“Do so, you sexist arse,” Sophie muttered.

“Fart jokes, always good. Love a good fart joke, me,” said Dernhelm, sounding like someone who'd swallowed half a ton of gravel in an effort to produce a low baritone. “And, umm, dirty songs. Us blokes love dirty songs. Do you know the one about the young maid of Ulf Hoo?”

Boromir treated us all to a reading from his book of poetry, which had Darren bellowing with laughter. Though he seemed slightly taken aback when he noticed how many of the limericks Boromir seemed to tell with a view to getting Dernhelm to laugh.

“Is Boromir, y'know, same way inclined as Leggy and Gimli?” he whispered.

“Why, is that a problem?” I asked.

“No, no, was just... well, he seems keen. And I'm not sure Dernhelm is... that way. He's not being very encouraging.”

“Ah, well, you see, it's rather complicated,” I said, realising that Darren had entirely lost the plot, or at least forgotten its key points. Further attempts to explain were interrupted by the arrival of Earcongota. She listened with interest to Dernhelm's joke about the Man, the Elf and the Dwarf arguing about who could get their bond-mate to scream the loudest. I listened with growing embarrassment.

“'... wall hangings' says the dwarf,” Dernhelm rumbled, and I felt an almost overwhelming urge to find some cough sweets. “Then the Dwarf says, 'and you can hear her screams all the way to bloody Lake Town.'”

Boromir doubled up laughing. “Wall hangings,” he spluttered, then giggled helplessly. Actually, not entirely helplessly. Somehow he managed, in his rolling around, to roll against Dernhelm and rested his head on the Rider's shoulder for a long moment, supposedly getting his breath back. Not as daft as he sometimes looks, the Steward's eldest. And Dernhelm, who was laughing quite hard too, didn't seem in any great rush to move away from him. But it was impossible to tell whether this was down to any romantic feelings or just an overall sense of comradeship.

After the pair returned to Elfhelm's Éored, we sat by the camp fire, watching the sparks drift up into the night sky.

“Éowyn really doesn't have a clue, does she?” said Charlize. “I just don't get it. How can she have Boromir giving her those huge puppy dog eyes and not realise he's absolutely smitten?”

“Éowyn?” said Darren.

“Oh Darren, you plonker,” said Sophie, but her tone of voice was quite affectionate. “Éowyn is Dernhelm.” Darren's brow-ridges shot up in surprise. However, before he could say anything, the Royal Piss Prophetess interrupted.

“She has Thanwenitis,” said Earcongota, in her best medical professional voice.

“Thanwenitis?” I asked.

“Ah, 'tis a very sad condition indeed. Leaches of former years dismissed it as an incurable condition, involving atrophy of the, err...”, she coughed delicately, “Nether regions. My former mentor, Sir Freodwine Bog-Boffin, was responsible for making the big breakthrough in its understanding. He realised that it was not a physical condition at all, but in fact arises from certain blockages or leakages in the tubes within the mind which allow for the flow of ideas.”

“Oh, a mental illness,” said Charlize.

“I suppose you could call it that, if you felt the necessity to oversimplify the issue,” said Earcongota, sounding a bit miffed that her elaborate explanation had been paraphrased so succinctly.

“But what exactly is it?” Charlize pressed the point.

“A complete, almost wilful inability to see that the scorching hot hunk of raw, unadulterated, hundred percent man right under your nose is absolutely crazy about you. In Boromir's case, crazier 'n a bessy bug.”

“But is there a cure?” I asked.

“Well, it is usually not a fatal condition, though it can become chronic, in some instances lasting for several hundred words. However, I think our Éowyn has a relatively mild case which I hope to see resolved within three or four chapters. The cure is usually some carefully engineered situation on the part of the author which finally makes her defences crumble and allows the hunk to sweep her into his arms and kiss her senseless. Hopefully without undermining her autonomy.”

“Ah,” said Charlize. “I see Ruth finally lent you her copy of _The Feminine Mystique_.”

~o~O~o~

It was two evenings later, a mere day's ride from the Pelennor Fields, when things started to go wrong with the plot again. Elfhelm rashly put his newest recruit, the young Dernhelm, on kitchen duty. Boromir reported the disastrous turn of events to us. Most of the Riders, being fairly big, beefy blokes, had survived the ordeal with nothing more than a few griping stomach pains. But Merry had come down with food poisoning, and was clearly going to be unable to take any part in the forthcoming battle.

“But without Merry to hamstring the Witch King, he'll kill Éowyn,” Sophie said to me in tones of absolute horror. I ran after Boromir's retreating figure.

“Boromir, when you get to the Pelennor Fields, you've got to stick to Éowyn like glue. Promise me you'll have her back,” I gasped when I caught up with him.

Boromir raised his eyebrows. “Like I'd do anything else,” he said firmly.

However our problems weren't over yet. In fact, arguably, they were only just starting, for those whom the plot bunny gods wish to destroy, they first play with for a little bit. Merry's food poisoning wasn't the end of the unexpected developments. The next thirty-six hours passed all too quickly, and we found ourselves minding the pack horses as the Riders lined up on the edge of the field, just near the gaps in the Rammas Echor, the outer wall. A messenger arrived from Elfhelm: we were to take the pack animals back a safe distance. Apparently they should never have got so close to the battlefield. So Sophie, Darren and I mounted our horses and started to turn back towards the rearguard. But horses are herd animals, and (as you may recall) Sophie and I weren't very good riders (Darren was worse than useless). Just as we tried to swing our horses round, the trumpets blasted and the line of cavalry nearby started to move. And Dobbin, Pet Food and Glue Ingredients (or whatever they were called) decided to go too. Suddenly, to our horror, we got swept up into the charge, our ponderous beasts galumphing along in the wake of the faster destriers.

All I could think was to cling onto my horse's mane for dear life and hope that no-one shot me, speared me or hacked me. Somewhere to my left I could see Sophie. Darren fell off the rump of his horse and landed in some mud at a relatively early stage in the charge, which I began to think was an unexpectedly wise move on his part. I half thought of trying to follow suit, but it was too late – I'd been swept into the action. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a spear being jabbed towards me. Had I been on a trained cavalry horse things might have gone differently, but Dobbin swerved and careened into Pet Food, with the result that both Sophie and I got knocked off. I was completely winded. I lay, unable to move, just wondering whether I'd ever get air into my lungs again, when suddenly the sun was blocked out. The sun was blotted out by a huge black carrion beast, like some sort of pterodactyl or other refugee from Jurassic Park. It soared low over our heads, then seemed to pause mid wing-beat. There was a horrible rasping squawk, its wings seemed to crumple, and it crashed to the ground just feet away from us. From out of the wreckage, a black figure rose, looming over us.

“This can't be happening,” Sophie shrieked. “It's meant to be Éowyn facing the Witch King, not a couple of girls from Manchester.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Thanwen for kind permission to take her name in vain!
> 
> And thanks to TG for supplying Earcongota's Texan dialogue.
> 
> And sorry - I have shamelessly ripped off the collected works of Dorothy Parker to supply Arwen with one-liners.


	19. Witch kings and other things

“Oi, author... yes you, I'm talking to you. You have just left me and Charlize with a Nazgûl looming over us for several weeks. That's not writer's block, that's sheer unmitigated sadism.” 

It's me, Sophie Helman, back again. Now, gentle readers (can you hear the sarcastic tone with which I said that? I hope you can, I really hope you can). I know the sort of thing you put in your reviews. You all pretend to hate cliffies, but really, not-so-secretly, you love them. And that is really bad news for us. Because our authors love reviews the way cats love catnip. So cliffies are their review-bait. But we're the ones stuck here, in the middle of a dramatic and terrifying incident, till our author gets round to resolving the bloomin' thing. And what does our author do at this point? Goes and writes a wedding scene in her other fic. A wedding scene, for heaven's sake. (See chapters 37 to 56). Rather have my wisdom teeth out without anaesthetic, remember? Inner circle of Dante's inferno, the one for writers of smutty fanfic: ringing any bells? Not only that... get this... she's planning another one. That's right, they're getting married twice. How the heck does that work? And why do I have to be the one left dangling from a cliff edge while it happens?

Anyway, to get back to the plot at last, the dark figure rose menacingly from the wreckage of his leathery, monstrous winged steed. I scrabbled back across the ground away from impending death. Charlize, in a display of incredible bravery, drew her sword and advanced towards the Nazgûl, the blade wavering in her hand.

Suddenly she spoke, in a trembling tone. “I can't do this, Sophie.”

“You've got to, or we'll both die,” I squeaked.

“No, you don't understand... I can't do this... I'd be committing the cardinal Mary Sue sin. Forget snogging Leggy, or stealing Aragorn from Arwen. I can only save us if I'm prepared to steal Éowyn's glory. Steal the glory of the only woman in the book who gets to do anything...”

“Now is not the time to develop moral qualms over our status as tenth et cetera walkers. Just cut his bloody head off, will you?”

However, our ethical dilemma was interrupted by a second, smaller figure climbing from the wreckage. He stepped out from behind the Nazgûl. I blinked in surprise. Since when did Black Riders carry pillion passengers? The figure wore a tattered black cloak and ill-fitting steel helmet, beneath which only his nose and mouth were clearly visible. I could see a hint of fangs... which were then revealed in all their glory as the creature grinned menacingly. At least I thought it looked menacing. However, it seemed that Chalize just wasn't feeling the menace. Beside me, my comrade in arms (arms which she refused to wield) heaved a great, heartfelt sigh of relief.

“Wotcher, Charlize,” said the smaller figure. The Nazgûl pushed back his hood to reveal floppy blond locks and a narrow, patrician face.

“Shaznag... Julian... What the hell are you doing here?” Charlize shouted, relief replaced by anger. “Bloody hell, do you have any idea how badly you scared me? I thought you were the Witch King of Angmar.”

Julian beamed from ear to ear. “I must be getting better at this job if you thought I was him.” The beam disappeared to be replaced by a visible shudder as the boy said “him.”

“So, erm, this is Sophie. Sophie, this is Julian. And Shaznag. You remember me telling you about them.”

“Umm, hello... Pleased to meet you... “ My voice tailed off as I realised what a deeply stupid thing this was to say, given the circumstances. 

However, Julian appeared not to notice (or was too urbane to allow himself to notice). He said in a smooth voice, “The pleasure is all mine.”

For my part, honesty (and innate tactlessness) won out. “Actually, no, scratch that. This is actually incredibly awkward, because in case you hadn't noticed, we're on opposite sides and this is the middle of a battle.”

Julian grinned. “Ah, but there you misread the situation...”

“Hello – big battle, people trying to kill each other – what is there to misread?”

“No, the battle is unequivocally unfolding around us.” (My goodness, a character with intellectual pretensions. He'd be reciting poetry in Quenya next. Plonker.) The plonker continued in the sort of tones made for debating in the House of Lords. “However, I come from a very old Cambridgeshire family with an impeccable pedigree. We changed sides at least half a dozen times during the civil war. Almost uncanny nose for sniffing out the winning side, doncher know?”

“So you're on our side, now? And how exactly does that help us?”

“Well, my finely honed sense for when to make a run for it tells me that the quickest way off the battlefield is this way,” said Julian. “Tally ho! Follow me!” With that, Charlize, the (former) Deputy Nazgûl, Shaznag and I started to retrace our steps back towards the edge of the battlefield. About half way through our retreat we were hit by an enormous wall of sound.

The entire assembled host of the Rohirrim cried, “Death!” with one voice. The four of us cowered in the shelter of a broken piece of stone wall as the charge swept past us. As the line of horses disappeared into the distance, we rose to our feet, rather shakily. 

“Charlize, Sophie... Thank God,” said a voice from somewhere to our left. We turned to see a rather shaken looking Darren. Shaznag gave a sharp intake of breath.

“Wow... so that's what Uruk Hai look like. Bloody hell, he's a big bastard, isn't he.”

“Fighting Uruk Hai!” said Darren, flashing a smile of triumph and thumping his fist to his chest, but then as quickly as it had appeared, his smile vanished. “Quick – I left Éowyn and Boromir fighting the Witch King.”

As we jogged across the battlefield, Darren filled us in on the details so far. It sounded like Théoden had gone out in style, refusing to bow or cower before the Witch King and even cracking jokes about how it felt like Snowmane weighed more than last time they'd done this scene, and had Éomer or Éowyn been sneaking apples into the stables again? Éowyn had stepped between the Nazgûl and his prey, Boromir had moved towards her (no doubt intending to stand shoulder-to-shoulder), but fortunately the plot bunny gods had left a convenient divot in the way, he'd tripped and landed on the ground – in a perfect position to stab the Witch King behind the knee, thus leaving the field open for his beloved to deliver the coup de grace. 

Eventually we came upon the scene of the epic fight. Théoden lay dead beneath Snowmane. There was another fell beast lying slain upon the ground (the fell beasts really weren't having a good day). Beside it lay the empty armour and crumpled black cloak of the fallen Nazgûl. And in the centre of the carnage, Boromir sat, cradling Éowyn's body, her head on his lap. He looked up at us, tears in his eyes.

“I should never have encouraged her to go to battle. And now she's gone, and I never even told her I loved her.” He gave a huge, gulping, snotty sob. At this point a group of knights in shining armour with deep blue surplices over the top rode up. The leader dismounted, removing his helmet to reveal a remarkably good looking middle-aged man who suddenly had me re-thinking my policy on age gaps. He knelt beside Éowyn's fallen form, and shoved his burnished vambrace under her nose. Sure enough, it misted up slightly. 

“She's still breathing,” said Boromir, sounding like all his Christmases and birthdays had suddenly come at once.

“Of course she is, discovering that is my only role in the plot,” said Boromir's Uncle Immy. “Well, that and giving Leggy a chance to wax lyrical about how the blood of the Eldar still flows strong in some of the latter day descendants of Numenor. We won't go into how much slash that brief scene has spawned...” He looked around at our unlikely group. “Okay, this is beyond bizarre – two rather dumpy, plain Mary Sues...” (I felt Charlize bristle next to me, and Darren growl in annoyance), “An orc, an uruk with acne and what appears to be a teenage boy dressed up as a Nazgûl. Anyone care to explain what's going on?”

So, as two of the Swan Knights made a rough stretcher out of broken spears and bits of cloth, we did our best to explain to Prince Imrahil what had happened so far.

“So you're in charge,” he said, looking at Charlize.

“Well, initially. I think it's got a bit out of my control.”

“Just reassure me on two points. I won't be slashed with Leggy, will I?” said Imrahil. Charlize shook her head. “And please tell me my daughter won't be capable of telepathy?” he added with a shudder.

“No, Boromir, Éomer and I took care of that version of Lothíriel several chapters back,” I reassured him. “You've got Haradrim assassin Lothi in this version.”

“Well, could be worse,” said Imrahil with a philosophical shrug.

The Price of Dol Amroth leapt back onto his horse, and he and his Swan Knights rode off. Slowly, Boromir and Darren carried the stretcher with Éowyn to Minas Tirith, the rest of us following behind. The Orc and Uruk raised more than a few eyebrows – in fact it's a wonder we didn't get speared way before we got far enough into the city to find the Houses of Healing. Fortunately, Boromir's presence prevented instant orc slaughter and got us through the various gates. 

We were met at the entrance to the Houses by an elderly healer who turned out to be none other than Ioreth. To our surprise, it seemed that Tolkien had rather misrepresented her character: she was a tall, distinguished woman with grey hair and no tendency whatsoever to prattle. Instead, she was brisk and business like, and soon found a small room where we carefully laid Éowyn on the bed. We left her there, Boromir sitting on a small stool nursing his own bad arm, and tenderly holding her hand. She still showed no signs of regaining consciousness.

The five of us who remained went in search of some food. The first circle was pretty much burnt out, but in the second circle we found a small tavern and bought some bread and sausage at ridiculously inflated prices. The bread turned out to be hard, and the sausage only just the right side of rancid, but we were so hungry we tucked in anyway. Half way through the intensive work out for our jaw muscles, a female voice called out.

“There you are! Thank heavens you made it.” We turned to see Ruth, flanked by Legolas and Gimli. “Prince Imrahil said we'd find you here.”

“Yes, he was the one who realised Éowyn was still alive,” said Charlize. “It was almost an exact replay of the incident with you and Boromir,” she added with a grin.

“Imrahil is a very fine man in whom the blood of Numenor runs almost pure down the ages...” Legolas began, only to be cut short by Gimli.

“Yeah, yeah, just 'cos he's got the hots for you...”

“Has not.”

“Has so.”

“Even if he did, which he doesn't, you're the only male for me,” said Legolas. Gimli looked slightly mollified.

“I see you've picked up a couple more additions,” said Ruth.

“Yeah, uh, Ruth – Julian and Shaznag. They're, um, defectors I suppose you'd say. Julian is an ex Deputy Nazgûl and Shaznag used to be the Minas Morgul stable hand. Ruth's my cousin,” I said.

An ultra-polite “How do you do?” and a cheery “Wotcha” cut the air almost simultaneously.

“So,” said Charlize, “How were the paths of the dead?”

“Yeah, tell us about the zombies,” said Darren.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The deputy ringwraiths just seemed too good to waste, and besides which, I couldn't resist the cliffie...
> 
> I shared a house with a historian when I was a grad student – and her thesis covered the period of the English Civil War – some families did indeed change sides several times.


	20. Houses of Healing (Marvin Gaye Remix)

We settled down to listen to Ruth's account of the Paths of the Dead (or “Zombies, like, f'real,” as Darren insisted on calling her adventure).

“So,” Ruth began, “That has to have been one of the more traumatic experiences of my life. Even more disturbing than reading Grant's _Semiotic Interpretations of Ancient Greek Sexual Perversion._ " Darren's brow ridges shot up, not for the first time, but Ruth carried on, “The Harrowdale really was completely terrifying. I thought I'd be okay with being followed by an army of the dead (I mean, how different could they be from the Senior Common Room of the average Oxford college?) but actually I was nearly pooing my pants. I don't think I'd have made it if it hadn't been for Arwen riding by my side. But the ride from the stone of Erech down through Lamedon to Lebennin was one of the most exciting things I've ever done. And Strider... he's like a different character. He's suddenly gone from grubby ranger to someone you can believe will be a king.

“But fighting my way across the Pelennor fields with the twins by my side – that was amazing. I can see why self-inserts are so tempted to go completely Mary Sue! The rush you get from it is amazing, you feel like you could do anything.”

“And did them Pare-ed-heel behave themselves?” I couldn't resist asking.

“That has got to be the worst Texan accent I've ever heard,” Ruth replied. “No, nothing like that happened. If anything, they're taking their lead from Arwen and have started to behave like they're my big brothers – really annoying big brothers.”

“What, please don't tell me they really are like the Weasely twins,” I spluttered.

“No!” Ruth sounded taken aback. “More like the Cray twins, if you really want to know.”

~o~O~o~

 

It was late afternoon. We'd all popped up to the Houses of Healing to check on Boromir and Éowyn. The shieldmaiden was still unconscious; Boromir was still holding her hand. We'd left Boromir alone with her, and were now lounging around in the rather insipid spring sunshine. Ruth was reading a book. Julian and Darren had found a piece of chalk and were playing hangman, Shaznag watching with fascination. Charlize, having devoted quarter of an hour to brushing her hair out with a beautiful silver and coral backed brush borrowed from Arwen, was now lying on the grass, eyes closed, soaking up the sun. I was bored.

Suddenly I heard a silvery voice say, “Well, well, if it isn't my favourite extra walkers. But who are the new additions?”

I turned to see Arwen coming down the path towards us, followed by Gandalf and Aragorn.

“We've got a list of people we need to see,” said Aragorn. “Eowyn, Faramir obviously, but apparently Elfhelm too. He's been knocked on the head and still hasn't regained consciousness. Earcongota hasn't left his bedside. Oh, and we have to do something about poor old Merry's terrible diarrhoea.”

“Faramir?” said Darren. “He's the bloke that the girls keep talking about. Some kind of a sex god, isn't he?” 

Gandalf chuckled. “Not exactly,” he said.

“But how come he's hurt?” Darren asked. “He wasn't even in the battle.”

“His dad tried to burn both of them to death,” Charlize explained patiently.

“What, his old man tried to off the two of them,” said Darren, sounding shocked. “Why would anyone do that.”

“Well,” said Ruth, searching round for an analogy that would make sense to Darren. “He had a palantir, like the one Pippin looked into. But I guess Denethor was too tight with his brass to pay for a decent subscription channel, so Sauron was able to feed him the movie-verse cinema version, making it look like the goodies were doomed. In fact, I think it was the original theatre release version, not even the extended version.”

“What, like low budget Channel 5?” said Darren.

“Yeah,” I couldn't resist saying, “Just like that, right down to the tits and Nazgûl.”

Arwen sniggered. “Anyway, come on darling. You've got sick people to heal.” She gave the rest of us a conspiratorial grin. “He's been going all George Clooney in ER on me... Been itching to get to this bit for several chapters. I'm just waiting for him to say 'Bring me some athelas, stat.'”

We went to see Éowyn first, as she was in the worst state. When we arrived, Boromir had been shoved to the side of the room and was looking on anxiously as Ioreth sponged Éowyn's arms and brow in an attempt to bring her temperature down.

“Nothing I'm doing seems to be making any difference,” said Ioreth. “I hope you can make good on that boast of yours about the hands of a king being the hands of a healer.”

Aragorn did indeed turn to Ioreth and ask for athelas at this point, though (at a warning glance from Arwen) he left off the “stat.”

“Athelas?” said Ioreth, sounding puzzled.

“Goes by the street name of kingsfoil,” said Arwen.

“Oh my, kingsfoil. You'll have to go to some really dodgy bits of the city to get hold of that. And nine times out of ten it'll have been cut with parsley or nettles,” Ioreth said.

“Which dodgy bits?” said Boromir (his Sheffield accent becoming, as always, more pronounced at the thought of seeing the rougher side of life). “I'll take Darren along as a bit of muscle.”

Darren beamed. Finally he had a chance to act out being in Hot Fuzz, or even better, Breaking Bad. Ioreth gave them instructions, and the pair raced off.

~o~O~o~

While they were gone, we went to check on Merry. He was not a happy hobbit, and became even less happy when Aragorn said the most effective treatment was likely to be a few days without food. I gave Ioreth some of the packets of rehydration salts I'd brought with me, and the recipe for my improvised honey-and-salt version, which she found fascinating. Then we popped in to see Elfhelm.

He was just showing signs of coming to. He looked round the room, and his eyes fell on Earcongota. He sniffed a couple of times, then looked puzzled.

“I can't smell a thing,” he said.

“I wonder if the blow to your head damaged your olfactory cortex,” said Ruth.

“His what?” said Ioreth and Earcongota, more or less in unison.

“The bit of his brain responsible for his sense of smell.”

“The brain isn't an organ of sensation,” said Ioreth firmly. “It's an organ of cooling.”

“Nonsense,” said Earcongota. 

“I'll have you know that my mentor, Professor Haroldus Stottle (Harry for short, to those of us who knew him well) experimented with his wife's brain. She was an Easterling, who'd been trepanned, and he stuck a bodkin in the hole and tickled her brain. She told us she couldn't feel anything. But when you dissect animal brains, they have a huge blood supply and loads of folds so they have an enormous surface area – so clearly the purpose of the brain is to cool the blood. He wrote an extensive tract on the subject, _The Bits of Beasties._ ” Ioreth delivered this lengthy explanation in a magisterial voice. But Earcongota was not going to let the matter lie for a moment.

“Nonsense,” she said. “My mentor, Sir Freodwine Bog-Boffin, studied battle-related head injuries extensively – and was able to link blows to specific parts of the cranium to specific behavioural and sensory problems suffered post-battle. As he explained in his well-known tract _The Rider who mistook his wife for a helm._ ”

The two healers glared at one another, neither prepared to give an inch. I could see Ruth's eyes light up at the prospect of a full-on scholarly spat. However, Elfhelm interrupted.

“Earcongota, you realise what this means... If I can no longer smell...”

“Just a moment, dear, this is an important matter of medical principle at stake here,” the Piss Prophetess said, turning back to Ioreth. But Elfhelm was not to be shut up that easily.

“Medical, schmedical,” he muttered. “The important thing is, if I can't smell any more, there's nothing standing between us and the resumption of our earlier liaison.”

Suddenly Earcongota swivelled round to face him full on, absolutely furious, jabbing her finger in his chest.

“For a start, 'medical schmedical' happens to be my whole life. I have spent years training, I am extremely good at it, and loads of people have lived as a result of me being extremely good at it. And another thing, 'Resume our liaison... RESUME OUR LIAISON!'” The Rohir's voice rose to a shriek. “If that's the best you have to offer, I suggest you go and liaise elsewhere. Preferably with your own right hand, because I wouldn't wish you on any other woman.”

There was a lengthy silence in which you could have heard a pin drop. Then a slow, appreciative handclap started from the other side of the room. I looked out the corner of my eye to see Arwen, a tiny, wry smile on her face.

“About bloody time,” the Elf said.

Earcongota, after flashing a grateful look at Arwen, swept out of the room. 

“I'll go and make sure she's alright,” said Ruth, and followed her. As she left, a hot sweaty Boromir and Darren returned, clutching a small leather pouch.

“At last,” said Aragorn.

~o~O~o~

We started with Éowyn. While Boromir knelt beside the bed, holding her hand, Aragorn steeped the herbs in some hot water, and wafted the fumes under her nose. There was a hiccuping noise, and then Éowyn gradually opened her eyes. At first she looked flustered and confused. But then she looked at Boromir and a peaceful smile spread across her face, the smile of someone who knows she's safe.

“Boromir,” she whispered.

“Eowyn,” said Boromir, his voice husky with emotion. “I should have told you ages ago. I love you...”

“Mmm, that's nice. I think I'll have them with honey cakes please,” Éowyn said. Her eyes dropped shut again.

“I don't think she's really taking a lot in at the moment,” said Aragorn sympathetically. “But this should be a healthy sleep rather than a coma, and she'll get some proper rest. Charlize, you and Ioreth keep an eye on her. Boromir, you need to come with me to see your brother.”

~o~O~o~

 

The fragrant smell of crushed athelas filled the room in which Boromir's brother lay. Aragorn turned from the bed to reach for some more herbs in the leather pouch on the table behind him. As he did so, Faramir's eyes fluttered open. His slightly glassy gaze settled on Aragorn's back view and a ghost of a smile crossed his face. For a moment, his hand lifted slightly from the coverlet and he seemed to be trying to reach out towards the ranger, but obviously the effort was too much and he let it drop back onto the sheet. Then he spoke, in a low, husky drawl.

“Mae govannen, cirion!” He raised one shapely eyebrow, and added, “Bain hacha!”

 

Aragorn looked distinctly ruffled by this comment, and stepped away rapidly to the other side of the room. Gandalf snorted with laughter which he tried, unsuccessfully, to disguise as a cough. Arwen took a pace forward.

“Caim ego. NIN!” she said in a very sharp, distinctly un-Elvish tone of voice.

I felt in my pocket and found it frustratingly empty: Ruth must have nicked my Sindarin dictionary again. Still, whatever the exchange had been about, it seemed to have met with Boromir's approval. I watched the tension drain out of him, his shoulders dropping visibly as he relaxed. I couldn't begin to imagine what he must be feeling like. It was so sweet to see him reunited with Faramir, knowing that the latter would live.

“Good to have you back in the land of the living, brother,” he said with a laugh.

“Boromir! But I... Father... we thought you were dead,” Faramir said in tones of amazement.

“It turns out father's Palantir was playing the original cinema-release version of the films. But fortunately all sorts of things have been happening differently. Sophie over there brought me some really good armour. I'm fine,” Boromir said. Faramir turned to me and smiled, an absolutely devastating smile which had me melting on the spot. 

“Thank you for saving my brother. I can't tell you how much it means to me.” And he fixed me with a steady gaze from absolutely stunningly beautiful eyes. His voice was low, eloquent, passionate, caring yet commanding at the same time. My insides seemed to have turned to mush. Suddenly I realised why our author spends so much of her time neglecting us to write Faramir-smut.

Oh my, poor old Boromir. He had to go to Cormallen, while Faramir stayed here in the Houses of Healing with uninterrupted access to Éowyn. After all our efforts! The poor guy was definitely toast. I thought back to all Boromir's angst-ridden conversations with the “Extra Walker Contingent”, as Ruth called us. He had turned again and again to the vexed question of whether we were in Movie-verse or Book-verse. If Movie-verse, his brother would sweep Eowyn off her feet with sheer unadulterated masculinity; if Book-verse, he'd woo her with poetry and mend her broken heart with his gentle, understanding nature. Confronted with the reality I have to admit I was so flustered I couldn't have actually told you which version was in front of me; all I knew was that Ruth's phrase “sex on legs” was looking like the biggest understatement in the history of Arda.

To my surprise, however, Boromir seemed totally relaxed and simply pleased to see his brother. I realised that I'd underestimated him: he was an even nicer bloke than I'd thought. And then he gave me a wink, before turning to Faramir. His next words absolutely floored me.

“Can you do me a huge favour? I've met this really wonderful woman, Éowyn of Rohan. She was injured in the battle – killed the Witch King of Angmar! Can you keep an eye on her for me while I ride to the Black Gate? I think she'd really appreciate the company.”

Faramir smiled. My knees seemed to turn to jelly, I found myself wondering if I was actually drooling visibly... I almost missed his next words. “Sure thing, bro. Is she the type of girl to want to be someone's melethron-mellon? Will we end up talking shoes and gowns?”

“You'd be on safer ground with swords and horses,” said Boromir with a laugh.

What the heck was Boromir thinking? He was encouraging Faramir to hang out with the woman he loved, and even priming him with good sources of conversation, instead of setting him up to try to talk fashion (which surely would have guaranteed that the guy would crash-and-burn). Perhaps he was relying on Faramir's unimpeachable sense of honour – having told his brother that he fancied Éowyn, perhaps he felt he knew Faramir's decency would stop him making a move.

~o~O~o~

After the stress of the afternoon, I went for a walk in the garden. I was just enjoying the solitude when my progress was interrupted by the sound of feminine giggles. I peered round the edge of the box hedge by the side of the path, and saw Ruth, Arwen and Earcongota, clustered round. Earcongota was holding Arwen's beautiful silver and coral hairbrush.

“Once more from the top,” said Ruth. She and Arwen took a step backwards and stood side-by-side, swaying their hips rhythmically from side to side and singing “Ooh, ooh, ooooh.”

Earcongota raised the hairbrush to her lips and began to sing too: “R. E. S. P. E. C. T...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up the text book at the start of the chapter – but my classicist friends back in my undergraduate days did indeed have to read a not entirely dissimilar volume, which was exceedingly graphic, and left them with a “thousand yard stare” for several weeks afterwards.
> 
> Aristotle, in the Parts of Animals, does argue that the brain is an organ of healing for more-or-less the reasons I've attributed to Professor Haroldus Stottle. And The man who mistook his wife for a hat is a marvellous book by neurologist Oliver Sachs.
> 
> Okay, I guess you'll want a translation of my (pidgin) Sindarin. But you can only have it on one condition: don't tell Sophie. I don't think she really quite understood what was going on in this last scene.
> 
> Mae govannen, cirion! Bain hacha! Hello, sailor! Nice arse! I have to confess, I stole “hello sailor” from “Elf Slash Sarcasm” by Tyellas, on the Hennuth Annun website. I thought it was such a brilliant joke it deserved a wider audience – and for the Ruths and Shirleys among you, I recommend a look at the original. “Beautiful buttocks” is cobbled together from Hisweloke's Sindarin Dictionary and the Silmarillion Writers' Guild's “Twenty-two words you never thought Tolkien would provide.” I may have got the order of adjective and noun wrong, but if it's wrong, I'll take comfort in the fact that I've brought a little bit of happiness into someone's life by giving them the chance to correct me. And I know someone, possibly several of you, will ;-D
> 
> Caim ego. Nin: Hands off. Mine. (Again, I hope I've formed the plural of cam correctly – if not, as above, I'm sure someone will tell me).
> 
> Melethron-mellon - literally “male lover friend.” (iIt is left as an exercise for the reader to come up with a more idiomatic translation).


	21. Toby Ziegler, we need you

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Errata (how I have always wanted to type that :-D) for the previous chapter, thanks to Certh:  
> “Bain hacha” should read “hacha bain”.  
> “Nin” (me) should read “Nîn” (mine).  
> And of course, in tribute to S&Y's masterly history of England, 1066 and all that, “for 'pheasant', read 'peasant' throughout.”  
> \--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

So there we were, trekking through Ithilien. We'd managed to find Dobbin, Pet Food and Glue, who were now loaded up with baggage. Julian was proving to be an absolute god-send in that department. He had a real knack with our nags, who he claimed were simply misunderstood and would respond well to a bit of love and affection and buckets of hot mash.

“Standard pony club story plot line,” he said. “The clapped out old nag rescued from bad owners who goes on to win every rosette at the local gymkhana.” He stroked Glue's muzzle affectionately. I offered up a quiet prayer to the Valar that none of the Rohirrim would overhear the “bad owners” comment.

Despite the uncertain fate which awaited us at the Black Gates, I was rather enjoying wandering the woods of Ithilien. They smelled lovely – pines and herbs, and in the evening, stewed rabbit from the pots over the camp fires. And all the time, I couldn't help but remember a pair of beautiful grey eyes, soulful, compassionate, intelligent, sensitive. And the rest of him wasn't bad either. His body reminded me of some of Ruth's rock-climbing friends. Even better, Éowyn looked like she was going to take up with Boromir this time round, so it wasn't really as if I'd be stealing a canon character. “Princess of Ithilien,” I murmured to myself. It had a certain ring to it.

“What's put that dopey smile on your face?” asked Charlize.

“Oh, nothing in particular,” I muttered.

We rounded a corner on the trail, and got the surprise of our lives. There, in a small clearing, was a small green tent. A very our-world sort of tent. Ruth muttered in appreciation – she was a tent snob, but it appeared that even in her discerning opinion this was quite a nice one – not quite as nice as a Quasar (whatever they were) but quite good nonetheless, and though one wouldn't want to use it on the Abruzzi ridge (where-ever that was) or the South Col, apparently it would stand up to most of what the British weather could throw at it. There was the sound (quite alien after this long in Middle Earth) of a zip being undone, then a small boy emerged. He had shaggy, shoulder length blond hair and startling deep blue eyes, and could have been mistaken for a small Rohir were it not for the jeans and red batman tee-shirt, and the liberal coating of mud and chocolate spread on his clothing. He was followed by a small, rumpled, plump middle aged woman with glasses and nondescript brown hair in a long plait down her back.

“Mummy,” said the little boy in astonishment, “It's Legolas.”

The woman did a double take. My jaw dropped open. I suddenly recognised that face – it was the earnest but slightly absent-minded face I saw when I occasionally bothered to peer out of the story through the web cam on the laptop... It was our author.

“Oi, you – yes, you with the cliffies and all that...” I started across the clearing towards her.

“Oh dear,” our author said. “Tommy Ginger was right. Camping trips are a really bad idea.”

“I've got a bone to pick with you. Several in fact...” The Shirley – our Shirley – grabbed the small boy and beat a hasty retreat into the the tent. There was a brief sound of the frantic tapping of laptop keys, then, with a noise like the TARDIS disappearing, the green tent wavered as if hidden by a heat haze for a moment, then vanished.

 

~o~O~o~

After a day or so, we arrived at the four cross-roads near Morgul Vale. Aragorn had trumpets blown loudly, and he and Imrahil (who I still thought was extremely handsome, albeit not quite as handsome as his younger nephew) had an earnest debate about whether or not to storm Minas Morgul. While they argued, I saw Julian slipping onto Pet Food's back.

“Julian, you're not changing sides again, are you?” I said anxiously.

“No, no, nothing like that. Just a bit of business to attend to. Back in a jiffy. Won't even notice I'm gone,” he said, and trotted off rapidly. 

Gandalf entered the “to storm or not to storm” argument, which meandered on for a bit longer, then he and Aragorn rode to the entrance of Morgul Vale with the rest of the vanguard. In mid-argument, Julian returned, with a cloaked and hooded black figure held between his arms, both of them perched on the back of his horse. Aragorn drew Anduril, flame of the west.

“Don't,” said Julian. “Please put the sword away. I need Arwen's help. Possibly Ruth's too.” He hopped down from the horse, then lifted the cloaked figure down.

Arwen came hurrying over.

“Arwen, this is my chum Bunty. She's got the most frightful pash on Nazgûl number seven, and needs a good stern talking to. And Ruth's copy of The Feminine Mystique.”

~o~O~o~

It was a couple of days later that I overheard a conversation that made me feel like I'd intruded somewhere I shouldn't have.

“Aragorn,” Boromir said, his voice serious.

“Yes?”

“About my vambraces...”

“It's okay, I promise not to nick them again.”

“No, it's just... If I... If I... die. Can you take them back to Éowyn? And tell her to find someone really nice who treats her like the wonderful woman she is and have lots of children, and think of me fondly but know that the thing I wanted most was for her to be happy?”

There was a long silence, then Aragorn said in a choked voice, “Of course.”

“Just... One other thing...”

“Yes?”

“Make sure I'm actually dead first, yeah?”

~o~O~o~

Five days later we finally made camp on the edge of the wastes near the Black Gate. The next morning, Aragorn arranged his army in an incredibly impressive line, then he rode out with banners and heralds and trumpeters, accompanied by the usual suspects (Gandalf, the terrible twins, Éomer, Uncle Sex God, Leggy and Gimli, and, in a slight change from book-verse, Arwen and Haldir). We loitered near enough to eavesdrop.

The heralds did their job, and announced that Elessar, the King of Gondor, wanted to kick Sauron's arse sometime into next week (albeit in much more heraldic language), and played a few trumpet voluntaries. There was a long silence then a thunder of drums and tremendous, out-of-tune braying of trumpets (which made even our school's brass band sound good - no way was anyone ever going to mistake the trumpeters of the Black Gates for the Black Dyke Mills Band).

The gates creaked open, making an ominous sound, and out rode a fearful figure. He had once been a man, but had been so twisted and perverted by Sauron's evil will that he was now fearful to look up. At least, fearful till he spoke out loud.

“Welease Woger!” he declaimed proudly.

“Oh, for Morgoth's sake, you've got the words wrong again,” said the Nazgûl standing at his shoulder (in a fearfully posh voice which made me think we were in fact in the company of yet another of the deputy Nazgûl, probably Tarquin). 

Gandalf strode forward. “Just give me the stuff you grabbed from the two hobbits in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, and let's get on with the plot and the battle.” He snatched a parcel wrapped in dirty sackcloth from the Mouth of Sauron, and stomped back to our lines.

 

“So,” said Arwen, “Does anyone have any idea at this point whether we're in Book-verse or Movie-verse?”

“I vote Movie-verse,” said Aragorn.

“That's just because you want to do the 'big speech',” said Arwen, waving her elegant hands and describing air quotes with them.

“Well, wouldn't you?” said Aragorn with a grin. “Now, how did it go again...” He paused for effect, cleared his throat, brushed a lock of dishevelled hair back from his face and started to declaim:

“From this day to the ending of the world,  
But we in it shall be remembered-  
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers;  
For he to-day that sheds his blood with me  
Shall be my brother; be he ne'er so vile,  
This day shall gentle his condition...”

“Oi,” said Haldir, “Ripping off Shakespeare's my thing.”

“And the scriptwriters, I always thought,” murmered Arwen, supposedly sotto voce but actually in a magnificent stage whisper which carried effortlessly round the assembled host. Aragorn shot both of them a glare, and started again.

“Show respect for them.  
There are some who are alive at this moment who will not be alive shortly.  
Those who do not wish to go on that journey, we will not send.  
As for the others, I expect you to rock their world.  
Wipe them out if that is what they choose.  
But if you are ferocious in battle remember to be magnanimous in victory...”

This time it was a growl from Darren which interrupted proceedings. “That's not yours either, that's ripped off from that Irish officer bloke before the Iraq war. My mum's last boyfriend was always watching clips of it on youtube. Fancied himself a hard man, but they wouldn't have him in the army 'cos of his flat feet.”

Aragorn gave another glare, and recommenced, “We will fight them on the beaches, we will fight them...”

“Churchill,” said Charlize. “Even I paid enough attention in history to recognise that one.”

“Four score and seven years ago...”

“Lincoln, Gettysburg address,” said Ruth.

“I have a dream...”

“Darling, that's lifted from the American Civil Rights struggle – hardly appropriate for this context,” said Arwen.

“I dunno,” muttered Shaznag. “I'm not entirely happy with the way things might work out for me post war. A bit of Martin Luther King would go down quite nicely in my books.”

“Oh, for eff's sake, I'm never going to satisfy you lot with my masterful oratory, am I? Well, sod it, if I'm going to commit plagiarism, I might as well steal from the best.” Aragorn shot us a look of sheer exasperation, turned his back to the Mouth of Sauron and shook his mail-clad booty in the enemy's general direction. He glanced over his shoulder and said, “Bite my shiny metal ass...”

Beside us, Arwen face-palmed.


	22. Icy Blondes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yup, it's time for a random film competition... Just because Tommy Ginger and I dreamed this up together. Your challenge: identify the classic Hitchcock thrillers that have been Middle-Earth-ified. So, fingers on buzzers. Prize is a virtual kiss from Prince Immy (because we know that only Shirleys will get this one) - your choice of Mark Strong, James Purefoly or Luca Zingaretti (or suggest your own chosen casting for Immy).
> 
> \---------------------------

So, we have an icy blonde just waiting to melt in the form of Éowyn, all ready to go get involved in various plots. And the brothers Hurin are ready to play everything from Cary Grant innocent entangled in a nefarious plot through dashing yet morally ambiguous hero with an edge of danger all the way to full-on bad guy. Not to mention a rich cast of supporting characters. So, lights, camera, action!  


1) Faramir, having broken his leg, is confined to a wheelchair in the houses of healing. And of course... he witnesses Lord Castamir strangle a servant. But when Beregond goes to investigate, there's no body and everyone just writes it off to "poor Faramir, being barbecued by Daddy has him seeing things". Sooo... Éowyn has to act as his "Lisa" and become his legs...  


2) Then....you could have Boromir as a sexy jewel thief trying to change his naughty ways....all the while ogling the Rohan royal jewels dangling between the White Lady's lovely breasts. There will...of course...have to be a heart-pounding horse ride along some high and jagged Gondorian cliffs...

 

3) And a terrifying scene at the cross roads outside Morgul Vale, where Faramir (who has now miraculously recovered the use of his legs) gets buzzed by a low flying crop-dusting Nazgûl and has to hide in a nearby field of corn. An innocent man, embroiled in a web of high treason and espionage, as he flees across the countryside, he is joined by a beautiful blonde shieldmaiden. But is she what she seems? Is she, like him, an ingenué pursued by evil forces, or is she in league with them... or does the truth lie somewhere in between, and she is a pawn trapped in their evil web and forced reluctantly to do their bidding. Only time will tell as we reach the exciting dénouement as Faramir finds himself clinging on to the face of one of the Argonath.... [dum diddle um – dum diddle um – dum dee dee – dum dee dee...]

 

4) And let's not forget the time Éowyn absconded with half the treasury of Rohan, only to overnight in a creepy inn in Arnor. Something just doesn't seem right... especially with Grima, the young innkeeper, who'd shown her to her room. Perhaps a nice bath might make her feel better... [squee.. squee... squee...squee... Which in this case has nothing to do with fan-girls].

 

5) And how about Faramir in the houses of healing, so traumatised by Denethor trying to burn him alive... or was it he who succeeded in burning Denethor... that he has lost his memory, and Eowyn (who has turned to healing a bit earlier than in Book-verse) is the young healer who tries to unlock his repressed memories... She realises she is falling for him yet simultaneously starts to develop suspicions... was he complicit in his father's death?

6) Grima agrees to murder Frodo if Gollum will murder Éomer, then they will swap booty - the ring and Éowyn - after the crimes have successfully been carried out? 

 

7) Young Eowyn is a lady in waiting to an older matron of Lossarnach. While vacationing by the sea... she meets the mysterious and troubled Lord Boromir, the Steward's heir with a past he's trying to forget. They get involved, hurriedly marry... and he takes her back to the family home... where someone like Ioreth does her best impression of Goodwife Danvers. Elphir turns up to cause trouble... while the kindly Faramir tries to give her what comfort he can. Whole thing ends in yet another barbecue. (What IS it with that bunch and fire???) 

 

8) Perhaps Faramir is a hot and sexy spy who coerces Éowyn into helping him. He falls in love with her but hides it... though he panics when Denethor and Boromir insist she infiltrate Saruman and his cronies. She manages to trick Grima into inviting her to a big party at Orthanc... where she sees all kinds of orcs and other suspicious stuff. Grima proposes to her... she tells Faramir... he tells her to do what she wants... so, heartbroken, she agrees to a betrothal to Grima as the only plausible way of staying in Orthanc and unravelling the mystery. Later she smuggles Faramir into Saruman's wine cellar where it turns out he is hoarding the "black powder" that could take down the walls of a fortress or city. Grima catches them....they feign a kiss to distract him....but he catches on. He knows he must kill her to save himself from being killed by Saruman. Grima poisons her, but Faramir breaks into the tower and rescues her. Grima begs them to take him with them...but they ride away, leaving him at the mercy of Saruman and his orcs. ( fade to black) 

9) Éowyn marries Boromir, only to find out he's a gambler who's embezzled from his Uncle Imrahil. She catches him selling off jewels King Théoden has given them as wedding presents and when his friend Frodo is attacked under mysterious circumstances, she begins to think Boromir may have been responsible, wanting to get his hands on Frodo's ring. She then overhears him asking Éomer just how much the Royal Rohan jewels are worth, so she begins to think he is going to kill her,too. We still have the climatic horse ride on the cliffs ( what IS it about those people and the damn cliffs?)....but he saves her....confesses his guilt and suicide plans.....she smothers him with kisses and they live happily ever after, making babies....avoiding shiny jewels....and STAYING THE HECK AWAY FROM JAGGED CLIFFS ON HORSEBACK!!!!! 

 

10) And of course... How could we have missed this one? "Crebain from Dunland!"


	23. The Red and the Black

My bloody author's gone and left us in the lurch again, and this time she didn't even have the excuse of neglecting us in favour of Farawyn; this was malice, impure and simple, occasioned by her being narked at me describing her hair as nondescript. She abandoned us, quite deliberately, for a crazy chapter on prehistoric movies.

So we've been back in the limbo where characters live between updates, but it's been even worse than normal. You remember how I feel about weddings and bridal shops? Inner circles of the Inferno. Well our author's evil muse and fellow Shirley, Tommy Ginger, only went and left Boromir with a stack of bridal mags... Middle Earth Bride Monthly, Numenorean Nuptuals, Dol Amroth Wedding Weekly... He's been unbearable. Even Ruth and Charlize, who normally think he's "ever so sweet" when he pulls a stunt like this, have reached the end of their tether.

He keeps saying the most inane things, like "I thought favours were scarves a girl tied round your arm before the joust, but it turns out they're little bags of sugared almonds" and "What do you think? Bridesmaids preceding the bride or following her carrying the train." And the bloody carry on over what sort of cake! For heavens sake, just choose the one you like eating. Even the hobbits have lost interest. That's right... the hobbits have lost interest in a cake. And he hasn't even asked her to marry him yet... in fact, he hasn't successfully told her he loves her yet (I refuse to count a declaration of love to a woman who was hallucinating about honey cakes at the time). I'm getting to the stage where fighting a troll looks pretty attractive.

And Arwen's completely lost any semblance of patience. Yesterday she snapped, "For Eru's sake, can't you just do it Elvish fashion?"

"Ooh, that sounds interesting. What sort of fashion is that? Do you have favours on the tables? And about the bridesmaids. .."

"No,” Arwen interrupted, “You just find somewhere private, shag each other senseless, then you're bound to each other for all eternity. And the best bit is the rest of us don't have to hear anything about it beyond the fact that you're now married," Arwen finished with a snarl.

Boromir looked terribly hurt and muttered something about how he would never dishonour the woman he loved, and how she deserved a wonderful wedding. Arwen countered by pointing out that for all Boromir knew, Eowyn might actually be rather keen on being “enthusiastically dishonoured senseless” by the right man. Boromir looked rather shocked, and the two of them sat sulking at one another.

This could have gone on all afternoon, but Ruth intervened. She pulled a dog eared copy of Ovid's Ars Amatoria from her rucksack and took Boromir on one side. He returned an hour or so later with a very thoughtful expression on his face.

~o~O~o~

If you recall, prior to the diversion into classic movies no one under the age of 260 has actually seen, we were at Morannon. The mouth of Sauron had offered us a dodgy deal on a pair of used hobbits but Gandalf, very sensibly, hadn't trusted him to come up with the merchandise. Negotiations had ended catastrophically with Aragorn shaking his arse at the enemy.

So now, battle lines had been drawn up. The Rohirric cavalry were to our left, looking very impressive. To our right were the Gondorian cavalry, looking rather less impressive, and their infantry, who ranged from totally kick-ass looking (Faramir's rangers) to terrified farm boys. On the rise behind us were Haldir and the Elven archers. All in all, it wouldn't have been too bad had it not been for the fact that the enemy opposite looked enormously impressive, utterly terrifying and outnumbered us at least ten to one. My main strategy (or was it tactic? I dimly remembered our history teacher telling us the difference once) was to keep my head down, keep as far away from the main action as possible, and survive the whole sorry mess, and pray that things were going to unfold according to canon as regarded Frodo and Sam.

Aragorn rode up and down the front line. He'd finally remembered his lines: “Hold your ground, hold your ground...” etc. etc. Then with a great yell, he led the charge towards the enemy, who responded by surging forward in a great wave. I got left behind, which I felt was far and away the best outcome I could possibly have hoped for in the circumstances. However, events have a habit of undermining the carefully laid plans of even the most reluctant of GDIMEs, and sooner rather than later I found the tide of battle flowed back towards me and engulfed me. I was swept up in a fight between Gondorian infantry and Easterlings. Had I been watching in the cinema, it would have been great – the men of Minas Tirith in their spectacular armour, the Easterlings resplendent in gold and scarlet. However, my only interest was in not actually pooing my pants. Then to my horror, the Gondorian between me and the enemy was hacked down.

Let me explain at this point that it is not at all like films. For a start, no-one swirls round, executing elaborate pirouettes while waving their sword. If you turn your back on the enemy, no matter how dramatic and graceful it looks, you get sliced in the back. And secondly, the good guy (or for that matter the bad guy) doesn't produce a single decisive stroke that takes out their rival, dropping him to the ground. It takes lots of messy, ill-timed, gory, bloody hacks to take someone down. And you don't stop till you're certain they're dead. But, unfortunately, this particular Easterling was prepared to put in all the gory hard work, and this particular Gondorian was now very dead. And I was next on the list. I backed away, then tumbled over another body behind me. As I landed on the ground, the Easterling loomed over me.

I really thought I was a gonner this time. The blade came whistling down towards my neck. But at the last moment, a short, notched sword intercepted its descent. The Easterling turned his attention to his attacker, who, with a grunt, managed to jab his sword under the man's guard. The Easterling got in a half-hearted parry which drew blood on my rescuer's forearm, before my unlikely looking champion sliced his carotid (which, to be honest, is about as close as you ever get to a one-stroke kill). Blood went everywhere, and I felt as though I was about to lose my breakfast.

"Wotcha!" said a familiar voice. A small, but solid creature with fangs showing in a cheery grin offered me his left hand. 

"Shaznag, you star. I thought I'd had it." I grabbed the proffered hand and got to my feet feeling extremely shaky, then gave the orc a big hug. Then I caught sight of the blood flowing from his forearm. "Here, let me bandage that for you... Hang on a mo, why is your blood red?"

"That's bloody fanon for you," said Shaznag grumpily.

"Fanon?" I asked, wrapping a strip of linen round the wound.

"Yeah, canon's stuff Tolkien actually wrote, like the troll Pippin stabbed having black blood. Fanon is stuff that's popped up in so many fics fans think it's canon even though it isn't. Like orcs having black blood. Or marriage by cloak. Or Lothiriel having a personality."

“Oh, I see.”

Having bandaged up the little orc, I caught sight of Darren and Charlize in the distance. They were fighting beside one another, Charlize's bow singing as her arrows flew towards the enemy, Darren swinging his short sword, protecting her back as she fired. The wave of orcs assaulting their position thinned as Darren took them down one at a time. They'd chosen their position well, on a slight hillock which gave Charlize a good vantage point, and made Darren's task of protecting them easier. Charlize seemed immersed in what she was doing. I could see she wasn't just picking off the enemy randomly; she was carefully aiming at their officers, trying to cause maximum confusion.

I struggled through the throng, hoping to stay invisible, far more focused on staying alive than in actually engaging with the enemy. As I reached the foot of the hillock, there was a slight lull in the action.

"Charlize..." said Darren.

"Mmm?"

"Uh, um, if I didn't have acne..." Darren's voice trailed off.

"If you didn't have acne what?" said Charlize.

"Uh, I don't suppose. .. I wouldn't be in with a chance. .."

"Chance of what?"

"Achanceofgoingoutwithyou?" Darren finished in a stumbled mess of words.

Charlize lowered her bow and stared at Darren in amazement. "Darren! You're in the body of a bloody Uruk and you're worried about acne."

Darren looked utterly crestfallen. "I guess that's a 'no' then."

Charlize shook her head in disbelief, then stood on tiptoe, reached up, snaked an arm round Darren's neck and pulled his head down towards hers. She planted an absolute smacker of a kiss on his lips.

"Darren, you great lummox," she said. Darren looked stunned. Extremely pleased, but stunned. Charlize gave him another, gentler kiss, then added, "Now pay attention to our rear - this is a bloody battle in case you hadn't noticed."

Just as they turned their attention back to the battle, we heard an enormous roar. Through the ranks of the orcs of Mordor a new threat pressed forward – huge hill trolls. I found myself pressed into the fray by the surrounding infantry, and before I knew what had happened, I found myself next to Pippin and Beregond (who for some reason looked very familiar from somewhere). Dimly, my memory of the book surfaced, and I realised that this was a really, really bad place to be. Beregond got thrown to the ground, then Pippin (who managed to stab the troll – and yes, Shaznag was right, trolls do have black blood). Then the troll swung its hammer at me. It only caught me a glancing blow, but that was enough to send me tumbling to the ground, my vision gradually closing in to a pinpoint surrounded by a cloud of stars. My last thought was “Cantona... that's who Beregond reminds me of.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Answers to the film competition: (1) Rear Window, (2) To Catch a Thief, (3) North by Northwest, (4) Psycho, (5) Spellbound, (6) Strangers on a Train, (7) Rebecca), (8) Notorious, (9) Suspicion, and of course, (10) The Birds.


	24. M*A*S*H

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dr. Jane Goodorc appears by kind permission of her creators, Tommy Ginger and Queef Queen
> 
> Sian22 appears by kind permission of herself, and I'd like to thank her for drawing my attention to the wonderful web page “The right (and wrong) way to die when you fall into lava”.
> 
> \-------------------------------------------------

I think I'm hallucinating. I can hear the theme music from one of mum's favourite TV shows, ancient re-runs of M*A*S*H, twinkling quietly in the background. I am being med-evaced somewhere, but it isn't a helicopter. That thrumming noise is the beating of an eagle's wings. And now we're circling down towards a cluster of dark green tents, and as we drop lower, I hear the tannoy.

“Incoming.” Weirdly, it sounds like Gimli's voice.

Hands lift me onto a trolley. My head lolls to one side, and I see Legolas, in army fatigues, with lipstick on.

“Why is everyone calling me 'Hot Lips'?” he asks in a petulant voice.

“Because you've got the peroxide blonde hair for it. It's called typecasting. That's why I'm Radar. 'Cos I'm short.” Gimli doesn't sound much less grumpy.

“Why am I in a dress?” I roll my head to the other side. Eomer is in a shapeless floral pinny, and has some sort of strange Mrs. Mop dishcloth affair on his head, of the sort that hasn't been seen in real life since World War II.

“Because you're Corporal Klinger,” Gimli explains, sounding like his patience is being stretched to the limit.

“But why me?” Eomer asks.

Hot Lips Thranduillion and Radar Gloin just exchange one of their “looks”. There is obviously some sort of in joke here that I'm not getting in my current state. They wheel the trolley into one of the tents, and there, with his back to me, is a tall, rangy figure with shaggy black hair, wearing surgical scrubs. A surgeon... but which of the inhabitants of Middle Earth will he turn out to be? He turns, and my heart rate goes through the roof. I suspect if Middle Earth had thermometers, they'd find my temperature just spiked too. It's none other than Benjamin Faramir “Hawkeye” Pierce.

He walks over to me, and nods to the anaesthetist. “I think we have to put this one under while we operate.” He pats my hand. “Don't worry, we'll be quick, and the Major here never drinks on Thursdays,” he says with a quirky smile.

I want to yell “No, no, don't put me under, I just want to look into your beautiful eyes, use a spinal block, just give me a chunk of wood to bite down on...” but the horrible rubber mask descends over my nose and mouth, the sickly-sweet smell of anaesthetic hits me, and the world fades to black.

~o~O~o~

A hand patted my cheek softly. “Wake up, wake up,” said a voice.

“Mmm, Hawkeye, kiss me again,” I muttered.

“Hawkeye?” said another voice. I should recognise that voice, I thought. I opened my eyes, cautiously. It was very bright out there... I squinted at the figure sitting on the floor at the other side of the tent. The second voice belonged to Ruth.

“She ain't a playing with a full deck yet,” said the first voice, and this time I placed the accent – that unique Texas-come-Westfold twang. “That was quite some knock to the head she took. And, tarnation, the brain is the organ of sensation, not cooling!”

Earcongota helped me to sit up and popped several pillows behind me, before offering me some water.

“No food as yet,” she said. “Knocks on the head leave you liable to lose your lunch, and I don't want you choking. I'm afraid I'll have to wake you every hour or so to make sure you're alright.” The Rohir fetched a bowl of water and cloth and sponged my face for me, which made me feel a bit better. Ruth chatted to me for a few moments, just long enough to reassure me that all my friends had made it through the battle, the Earcongota said it was time for me to get a bit more sleep.

By the time Earcongota decided I was well enough to be allowed out of bed, it was mid afternoon the next day. I emerged from between the flaps of canvas to find myself in a veritable tent city, in bright colours with pennants bearing fantastic heraldic animals fluttering from their poles. The tents were on the edge of a broad, grassy meadow surrounded by trees. The spring grass was a vivid green, about ankle high and dotted with flowers - poppies, purple vetch, meadow sweet. In the bright sunshine, small groups of people sat sunning themselves. About two thirds of the way down the gentle slope towards the river, I spotted Charlize, Ruth and Arwen.

As I made my way towards them, still feeling a bit unsteady on my feet, I noticed someone in what appeared to be modern dress – a bloke in chinos and a checked shirt. I did a double take, wondering if I was hallucinating. As I scanned round the meadow, I spotted more like him – another man in corduroy trousers and a tweed jacket with elbow patches, a woman in a fleece, walking trousers and hiking boots, with a day-sack from which a geologist's hammer dangled, and over in the distance, dressed in a safari jacket and pith helmet, a woman with steel grey hair in a bun, who appeared to be deep in conversation. In the time it took me to register all these strange new additions to our story, I finally reached the girls.

“Who on earth are all these people in clothes from our world?” I said.

“Dunno,” said Charlize, “But they all seem a bit odd.”

“They're Tolkien scholars of one sort or another,” Arwen said. “And Tolkien scholarship has become very inter-disciplinary of recent years.”

“Disciplinary?” said Charlize. “Does that have something to do with all those spanking fics?”

Ruth put her head in her hands and made a low, groaning noise. “Disciplines as in different academic subjects,” she explained.

“Yes,” said Arwen. “As well as the predictable literary theorists,” (at this point she gestured towards the man in the corduroy trousers), “We have geologists, anthropologists and even, since Radagast went on sabbatical and someone gave him some time on a supercomputer, climate scientists.”

We watched the various academics as they moved between one group of people and another on the meadow. The geologist got into conversation with Frodo and Sam, and we saw them gesture for her to join them. She sat cross legged on the ground. As far as we could tell from this distance, the conversation seemed quite friendly, with the woman listening intently to whatever it was they were telling her. The same could not be said for Shaznag's conversation with the older woman in the pith helmet. It seemed to be getting quite animated, and not in a good way.

“Shaznag is looking really upset,” said Ruth. I stared at the scene and came to the conclusion that she was right. The little orc didn't look angry or fearsome, he just looked somewhat offended and very sad.

“Time for a rescue mission,” said Arwen. “The great thing about 'participant-observer' anthropologists is they're so busy trying to assimilate themselves into the culture under study that they exhibit the most ridiculous level of deference to the indigenous royalty – which in this case is me, give or take the presence of the actual wedding ring on my finger.” She rose to her feet and swept gracefully across the grass. She rapidly reached the orc and scientist, towering over both of them. The Elf gave Shaznag a consoling smile, and gently took his elbow in her hand to steer him away from his tormentor, who looked like she was trying to object to this turn of events. We saw Arwen's other hand stray to the hilt of her Elven dagger, and watched as she said something which even from this distance we could tell bore the hallmarks of Arwen's customarily cutting delivery. The little grey-haired woman recoiled several steps. Arwen took the opportunity to lead Shaznag back to us.

He was nearly in tears. “She said she was an 'orcthropologist' called Dr. Goodorc. She kept asking me how many of you I'd 'despoiled'. I wouldn't do that to you. You're my friends. I wouldn't do that to anyone. It's a horrible thing to do. I may be an orc, but I'm not horrible. And besides which, I love my shauk very much.” He definitely started to sob at this point.

He sank onto the grass. Ruth udged over next to him and put her arm round his shoulders.

“We know you're not horrible. You're a lovely orc, and very kind.”

Arwen bent down and patted him on the arm. “Don't worry, Dr. Jane Goodorc is not going to be around for much longer. I'm going to have a word with Mithrandir and get her sent home.” 

Ruth tried to steer the conversation onto safer ground. “Tell us about your shauk.”

“In fact,” said Charlize, “Start by telling us what a shauk is.”

“Well, not that Dr Hates-Orcs stuck around long enough to find out, but actually, we hang around till we meet the right person, then they're our mate for life. That's what a shauk is. I met my shauk, Vashtath, ooh, about 30 years ago. She's really smart and funny, and very brave. She's lovely to look at too – beautiful tough skin like well tanned leather, just the right amount of scarring so you know she's dead hard and will be able to protect our whelps, lovely strong yellow fangs – not those tiny little insipid pale blunt things you Tarks have...” At this point Shaznag gave us a cheeky grin to indicate that he was winding us up. “And lovely yellow-gold eyes to match. And nice long arms, and short legs – lovely balanced figure she has.” He beamed again, this time not so much out of amusement as fond recollection.

Arwen said, “She sounds lovely.” And the fascinating thing was that for once I don't think she was trying to keep a straight face – she was genuinely engaged in the little Orc's story. Arwen will cut you to ribbons if you deserve it, but she doesn't put the verbal boot in with people she thinks are nice.

“So, where is she?” asked Ruth.

“Well, I was worried sick about her, what with ending up on opposite sides after Julian decided to... what was that word you used? Defect? But after the battle of Morannon, Éomer put me and Darren on stretcher bearer duties, picking the injured off the battlefield. And I found her. She's got some cracked ribs and a dislocated shoulder, but she's safe with our own people. I did offer to bring her here, but she said she wouldn't feel comfortable, what with all this unnatural green, and trees and flowers and what-not, not to mention she's a bit scared of Tarks. And absolutely terrified of Golug-Hai, no offence meant.” Shaznag gave an apologetic look towards Arwen. He paused, then gave another cheeky grin. “Comes of all the stories of Tarks 'despoiling' orcesses... so maybe we're both as bad as each other in terms of telling tales about how terrible the enemy is. Still don't like Dr. Hates-Orcs, though.”

“So what are you planning on doing next?” asked Charlize.

“Well,” here, Shaznag gave a careful glance at Arwen, as if weighing up her response, “I thought I'd hang around with you guys for a bit and maybe go back to Gondor, because I'm a little bit anxious as to what the future holds for us Orcs. I'm kind of hoping I can arrange some sort of peace deal, where we just get left alone in Mordor so long as we don't bother you, and you don't bother us. Then me 'n' Vashtath can go back to our den next to the Sea of Núrnen and raise our whelps and just get on with life.”

We sat around on the grass and chatted for a bit longer. All of a sudden, Ruth caught sight of something that grabbed her attention. “Uh oh, looks like another annoying Tolkien scholar on the loose.” 

We all looked over to where Frodo and Sam had been sitting chatting amicably to the geologist. They'd been joined by another person in modern dress, a man this time, wearing jeans and a band-tour t-shirt. Frodo and Sam didn't look like they were being attacked directly as Shaznag had been; instead it looked like the geologist and the new arrival were arguing volubly. We exchanged glances then got up and sauntered over to the two hobbits and their interrogators.

“And I'm telling you,” said the man in a distinctly Kiwi accent, “That in the movie gollum has to sink dramatically into the lava, holding the ring aloft, gradually disappearing till all that remains is his hand, then the ring, visible for a moment before it melts.”

“But it didn't happen like that,” said Sam. “He sort of lay there on top of the lava, like a pond-skater on a puddle. Hardly any of him was below the surface. Then he just burst into flames.”

“Doesn't make for good movie action.”

“But it's accurate,” said the geologist, sounding very frustrated. Interestingly, she had a Canadian accent. “Lava is three times as dense as water, and has a much higher viscosity, and...”

“Sweetheart, do you think the movie going public care about science?” said the man in a very patronising voice.

“Don't you 'sweetheart' me...” began the geologist.

“Oh, what have we here?” said the movie guy. “Some kind of crazy hairy feminist?”

“Well, yes, if she's got any sense,” said Arwen. “And I'm one too – probably crazier and with a sword. So I suggest you take back the 'sweetheart' line and head back to your film studio... Oh, and give me a better part than simply embroidering a bloody dishcloth and singing 'stand by your man' in Quenya.”

Charlize and Ruth looked gobsmacked. I suspect I did too... Arwen had just done one of the best Dolly Parton impressions I've ever heard. She winked at us.

“Hey, I like all kinds of music. I like country... and western. Tar ar vëarnarl da, hé anta ranqui atta mapa.”


	25. Ovid's 'Ode to the Maid of Ulf Hoo'

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, first the author's note which starts with a grovelling apology for a grievous and egregious failure in scholarly attention to detail on my part. And an erratum. Stand by your man is of course by Tammy Wynette, not Dolly Parton. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa... The Quenya at the end of the last chapter, by the way, was indeed my attempt to translate “Stand by your man, give him two arms to cling to...” (Sorry, TG).
> 
> By the way, Queef Queen and I have been discussing normal human age to Numenorean age conversion factors (or rather, I have been boring on about it in my nerdy scientist way, and QQ has been listening politely), and I reckon it's about 2/3 (based on a sample size of one – Faramir lived to 120 according to Canon – but as I said to Sian, what a sample!) So a 41 year old Boromir is actually more like late twenties in normal human years... so picture, if you will (and who wouldn't want to) the young Sean Bean, probably in the early episodes of Sharpe!
> 
> And a big thankyou to Thanwen for letting me take her name in vain!
> 
> \------------------------

The sun was beginning to sink low in the sky, dipping towards the distant glint of the mouths of Anduin in the west, which turned to a liquid gold. (Yay, on the Stella Gibbons-Baedeker Guide star system, this description scores at least a five!) So anyway, it's me, Sophie, back again after another period of neglect by my author (who has found time not only to attend a conference but also to write not just one, but three pieces of Farawyn smut while leaving us kicking our heels – just as well the Field of Cormallen is a nice place).

So, the sun was beginning to set when suddenly, silhouetted against the pink and gold in the west, we saw a slender yet commanding figure astride a magnificent grey horse. The figure at first seemed to have a halo, but then I realised it was a cloud of long fair hair, lit from behind till it looked like golden fire. The horse came trotting rapidly along the road, and its approach was clearly seen by many. Charlize, Arwen and I jogged down the hill to meet the figure, while Éomer and Boromir came running from the other direction.

“Éowyn,” her brother bellowed, reaching up and lifting her down from the horse and pulling her into a great bear-hug. “What on earth are you doing here? I thought you'd be staying in Minas Tirith recuperating from your injuries.”

“Well, I felt a whole lot better, and it suddenly struck me... this is the first fic I've ever been in (or canon for that matter) where I haven't fallen in love with Aragorn and thus wanted to avoid him like the plague due to excruciating embarrassment. So I thought 'Hang on, I never get to go to Cormallen, and it sounds a blast, so why don't I just saddle up Windfola and ride over here?'”

“Brilliant!” yelled Éomer. “You get to join the party. And take part in the jousting. And I'll be able to make lots of money off the poor idiots who wager against you because they think girls can't joust!”

“You don't need to make loads of money,” said Éowyn with a laugh. “You're the King now! Just one thing about the partying, though. I want it clearly understood that you are not to come to any sort of understanding with Immy, and marry me off to Amry-whatsit, or Erchy-whosisname, or the other one. Just because I am eternally grateful to Immy for realising I was still alive does not mean I am going to get hitched to one of his sons.”

Like an idiot, I blurted out the first thing that came into my head. “But what about Faramir. Didn't you want to stay in Minas Tirith with him?”

“Why?” asked Éowyn. “Faramir's got everything under control there. He's doing a really good job of running things. Why would he want me under his feet? Oh, by the way Boromir, he's been absolutely sweet to me, and he sends his love to you.” 

_Absolutely sweet to her..._ My heart sank. Oh goodness, poor Boromir. I continued to dig my conversational hole towards Australia (or whatever is round the other side of Middle Earth, assuming it has an other side, that is). “But you and him... won't you miss him? Won't he miss you?”

Éowyn looked blank for a moment, then comprehension dawned and she gave an enormous snort of laughter. “Oh, Béma's horse, there's nothing like that going on... Well, there wouldn't be, would there?” And she, Boromir and Arwen exchanged another of those “looks”.

_Oh no!_ Suddenly it hit me like a ton of bricks. An awful moment of realisation, the most awful imaginable. Finally I realised what those looks were about. Oh god, the embarrassment. I felt about four inches high. I wanted to crawl into my tent, pull the flaps to behind me and never, ever come out again. I couldn't believe I'd been so stupid. They knew... they all knew... knew that I had the most enormous crush in the history of crushes on Faramir. And I'd committed the cardinal Mary Sue sin. Okay, not the cardinal Mary Sue sin (killing the Witch King in Éowyn's place), but certainly one of the seven deadly sue sins. I'd let Éowyn know I fancied her man.

Arwen looked at me, raised an eyebrow, and politely changed the subject. “So, how're the preparations for the coronation coming on?”

“Very well,” said Éowyn. “And the wedding too.”

“Oh no, not an elaborate wedding,” said Arwen with a grimace. “Look, according to _LaCE_ we are married already. Have been for decades. Heck, given that I now have to make do with a mortal lifespan, even a Dunedan mortal lifespan, I certainly wasn't going to sit around and waste decades of it twiddling my thumbs and embroidering samplers. Make hay while the sun shines, or roll in the hay while the sun shines, or whatever that mortal saying is. Oh, and find more interesting things to twiddle, that's my motto.”

“Yes, but your new people will expect a big wedding. Fairy tale endings and all that,” said Boromir.

Arwen glared at him. “You've got a real thing for all this crap, haven't you? If I see so much as a hint of a net bag of sugared almonds, I will break with millenia of Elven tradition for being dignified and aloof and shove the bloody things where the sun don't shine...” She looked so fierce Boromir took a step backwards, and Éowyn and Éomer took a fit of the giggles. Suddenly, though, Arwen seemed to mellow. A grin spread across her face. “Still I suppose Ada will be really pleased. He'll get to choose a really lovely frock.”

“What?” Charlize said. “Is it an Elven tradition? That your dad picks the bride's dress?”

“Not for me, silly, for him. He'll be so chuffed at doing the whole 'father of the bride' thing.”

~o~O~o~

The next morning, Charlize, Ruth and I were sitting on a large boulder on the banks of the Great River, feet dangling in the cool water. I found myself staring in a contemplative fashion at my leg hair, wafting gently to and fro in the current like little fronds of fine brown pond weed.

“You know, it's strangely liberating not to have to worry about hairy legs,” I offered.

“Not something I worry about,” said Ruth, predictably. “Sometimes I shave – it does look quite nice, I'm not immune to the aesthetic norms of my society...” I rolled my eyes at this. Why did Ruth always have to have an intellectual 'position' on absolutely bloody everything, even hairy legs? Ruth continued, “And sometimes I don't bother – never shave when I'm in the Alps, always come back looking like a flippin' yeti.”

Charlize shot her a horrified look. Ruth gave an evil grin and said, “Maybe I should braid my pit hair?”

“Eww, gross!” said Charlize. “Anyway, it's bloody typical. I get my first proper boyfriend, and the nearest ladyshave is in a different world.”

“Candlewax?” I suggested, and Ruth splashed water over me.

“Seriously,” Ruth said, “If Darren's bothered about a silly thing like that, dump him. My mate Tim and I had this conversation once (think it was a bivvy half way up the Brenva Spur), and he said that basically if a bloke was anything other than pathetically grateful to be sufficiently up close and personal to find out if you had body hair, you should kick his sorry arse out of bed on the spot. A decent bloke will think you're wonderful whatever state your legs are in.”

“Really?”

“Yes, really,” we chorused. I added, “And in any case, in case you hadn't noticed, Darren's a bloomin' Uruk. He's hardly in a situation to be casting aspersions about other people's appearances.”

Charlize brightened visibly. “And he's really uptight about his acne, so I suppose he knows what it feels like...”

“So,” I began, “You and Darren... Didn't see that one coming.”

Charlize looked a bit embarrassed. “Well, I'm not entirely sure I did. I mean, I liked him as a mate from the start – we... well, we just see the world the same way. Have some of the same things we worry about – like teachers judging us on our names, snooty kids at school turning their noses up because our parents aren't quite as good as theirs. Like, no matter how hard my dad works to keep us comfortable, there's always some posh prick saying he learned on the job instead of going to uni. Or Darren's mum – she used to get up at 5.00am to do a cleaning job before her day job just to keep things going 'cos his dad's a useless git who never bothered to pay any maintenance. But there's always some tosser who's going to be snooty about cleaners...” Her voice trailed off. “Oops, maybe I shouldn't have told you that – Darren might feel a bit awkward if he knew you knew.”

“Don't see why,” said Ruth. “She sounds like a hell of a woman to me. From the odd thing Darren's let slip, she doesn't have the best taste in blokes, but then neither does Earcongota. Doesn't stop her being a great healer, and a good laugh...” She grinned and started to sing, “R E S P E C T, You know what it means to me...”

“So, anyway, moving on from Ruth's bloody awful singing (anyone would think she was an elf) you liked him as a mate – how did you end up playing tonsil hockey with him in the middle of a bloody battle? Just about the last thing I saw before I got twatted over the head.”

“Dunno, really. He just seemed so sweet asking me to be his girlfriend, and I thought 'well, what the hell, we're probably about to die anyway,' and just snogged him – and it turned out to be really nice. I dunno where it's all going, but he's nice, kissing him's nice, he isn't pushing me to do anything, he seems to really like me. I mean, it's not like we're madly in love and going to get married tomorrow, just seeing how things go, 'cos it's nice for the moment and we really like each other.”

“Sounds a damn sight better than anything Earcongota's managed to date,” said Ruth. 

We lapsed into silence for a bit, splashing our feet and just watching the river drift past. Then, a bit further down the bank, I caught sight of two more figures, also sitting with their feet dangling.

“You know, I think Earcongota's luck may have just changed,” I observed. The others turned to follow my gaze. There, sitting on a low, slabby boulder, were the Piss Prophetess and a tall, dark haired, muscular man. He seemed to be feeding her slices of water melon. She was giggling, and he had an arm casually round her waist.

“Who's that?” asked Charlize.

“Beregond, the bloke who saved Faramir from daddy's little bonfire of the vanities,” said Ruth. “I was talking to him on the journey here – seems like a really nice bloke. Widower, has a son of about twelve or so, doesn't seem like a player... You know, I think she may have finally got it right this time.”

“Who's got what right this time?” asked a deep voice from behind us. We turned to see Darren. He came and sat down beside Charlize, giving her a little peck on the cheek (it was very sweet – he still seemed a bit shy round the rest of us).

“We think Earcongota's got together with Beregond.”

“Ah, that would explain the noises I heard coming from his tent last night,” said Darren with a grin.

“What, already?” I spluttered in shock.

Ruth grinned at me. “Don't tell me you buy into that 'hold out to the third date or he won't respect you in the morning' crap.”

I nodded.

“Hey, all a guy running off into the distance without hanging around for breakfast tells you is that he's a bit of a tosser. No, scratch that, a complete tosser. Doesn't tell you anything about the girl. I've had one night stands that were just nice one night stands, ones that turned into really nice relationships, and I've come across players who've devoted bloody months to getting into my knickers only to vanish and never call as soon as they've got the notch on the bed post – and believe me, those are the ones that hurt, 'cos you've wasted shit-loads of emotional energy by that point. The honest one-nighters are fine.”

Darren, as usual, was listening to this with rapt attention, pointy ears twitching. As always, he seemed to be finding Ruth quite an education. I have to admit, I always struggled not to giggle when Darren got that expression – brow-ridges drawn together, ears twitching. I just looked so funny. Charlize didn't seem fazed in the slightest, though, and took hold of his hand in an absent-minded sort of way. We chatted for another half hour or so, then Ruth announced she was off to look for the 'Cray Twins' (her nickname for them seemed to have stuck). I found myself stuck with Charlize and Darren, feeling more and more like a spare wheel, until eventually, I cobbled together some sort of feeble excuse and headed to the other side of the field where I settled down in the shade of a large spreading chesnut.

Having escaped from being gooseberry-in-chief, I pulled my book out of my pocket. However I didn't manage more than about two pages before I caught a glimpse out of the corner of my eye of Éowyn and Boromir settling themselves down under the next tree, about twenty yards or so away. I didn't mean to eavesdrop but this corner of the field was very quiet, and, being Tolkien's creations, they didn't mumble like most of my contemporaries, but (rather unfortunately as far as I was concerned) had admirably clear diction. I buried my nose in my book and tried not to let on that I was watching their every move. I know I shouldn't have, but I was just about dying of curiosity.

"It's so nice to see you again," Boromir said, then turned slightly pink. Éowyn just smiled back at him. ' _Thanwenitis_ ', I thought to myself. He tried a different tack. "My brother's terribly clever, isn't he?"

Oh my goodness. I couldn't believe Boromir could be so daft – drawing attention to his brother's good points. The good points that Éowyn had said she really liked. Boromir's schoolboy error seemed to be confirmed by Éowyn's response.

“Incredibly clever. He knows just about everything there is to know about history, the natural world, literature – he can even quote poetry in Quenya. I can't believe how many languages he speaks. Though his Rohirric accent sucks.”

Boromir laughed. “At least I can now recite 'There was a young maid of Ulf Hoo' in Rohirric, thanks to riding beside you on the way to the Battle of Pelennor Fields.”

“Yes, you even swear with an Aldburg accent.” Éowyn grinned. “I can't think where you picked that up from,” she added with a wink.

Boromir toyed with a blade of grass, then said rather shyly, “I never could quote poetry in Quenya. Though Ruth's been teaching me Latin... that's like her world's version of Quenya, spoken by an ancient civilisation. Though not elves. They don't have elves in their world. Or hobbits, or dwarfs, or orcs... just men... and women of course.”

He added the last bit very hastily and defensively. Presumably he'd been at Ruth's copy of the _Feminine Mystique_ again. He was still staring at the piece of grass. Éowyn gave him a very penetrating look.

“Why does it matter so much to you? The poetry in Quenya, and in... what was that language again? What's wrong with not being good at remembering poetry? At least the young maid of Ulf Hoo makes people laugh, which, to be honest, is more than can be said of Faramir's poetry.” 

Boromir turned bright red. I got the sudden feeling that it was now or never, that he was trying to screw up his courage. Suddenly I felt really out of place, but I couldn't move now, or I might distract him and he might never say anything. I tried to think invisible thoughts and fade against the tree trunk behind me.

“Well,” said Boromir, taking a deep breath. He finally lifted his face and looked Éowyn straight in the eye. “Do you remember a few versions back, maybe four or five, in all the GDIMEs we've been in recently?”

Éowyn gave a hesitant nod. “There's been so many. I find it hard to keep all of them straight in my head, specially since at least half of them I just want to forget.”

“Well, I passed through Edoras on my way to Rivendell, and you beat me at fencing, and out-rode me, and were generally amazing. So I told you you were. And you just laughed, and said you liked your men more intellectual... So...” He looked back at the blade of grass again. It was now twisted into a shredded knot of green mush. “Well, I've been trying to develop some intellectual interests ever since. Though I was very relieved when I realised that at least this time round I wasn't going to be competing with Faramir, because, after all, how could I ever hold my own against him in the brainy stakes?”

It was Éowyn's turn to blush. “You didn't take me seriously, did you? I was just so terrified of ending in another of those 'Éowyn goes with Boromir to Rivendell' fics. They are usually so tedious – written by Muriels who just follow the plot of the book almost page by page – or actually, the movie script, scene by scene - only the Muriels do it in text speak. And sometimes,” she blushed an even brighter red, “We do rather more than simply go to Rivendell. But even that's no good – it always reads like it was written by someone who'd never... well, 'done it'.”

Boromir winced. The two of them sat side by side in silence for a few moments, before eventually the Rohir spoke once more.

“So,” the shieldmaiden said. “This Latin poetry. Can you remember any of it? I'd love to see how it compares with Faramir's Quenya poetry.”

Boromir cleared his throat. “Odi concubitus, qui non utrumque resolvunt.” He looked down at the floor, turning pink again. “There was another bit, but I didn't like that part, so I've just kept the bit I did like.”

“What does it mean?”

Boromir turned even pinker. He leaned over and whispered something in Éowyn's ear, and her eyes opened very, very wide. In a slightly breathy voice, she spoke.

“Really? That's important to you? And you always... try to make sure things work out that way?”

“Well, yes... At least that would be my intention. I don't actually know... erm... for sure... Uh, experience, uh, well, I haven't, um...”

Éowyn's eyebrows almost hit her hairline. Then she gave him a shy smile, still blushing. (I began to wonder if either of them would ever go back to anything even close to their original colour). Then she stood up and offered him her hand, helping him to his feet. As he stood facing her, she reached and put her hands on his shoulders, stood on tiptoe and gave him a very quick, very shy kiss. Boromir stared at her as though all his Christmases had come at once.

“Come on, let's go for a walk,” she said, “And talk more about poetry.” And with that, the two of them wandered off across the field hand in hand.

Bloody hell... chapters of Thanwenitis, and all it took was a little bit of plain speaking. Admittedly in Latin. But even so. It did the trick after all. Who said dead languages were useless? (Either that or it is a testament to our author's lack of imagination/patience that she just decided arbitrarily that this was the chapter in which Éowyn finally made a recovery. Mind you, we're on chapter 25 which is an all time record. The longest she's ever held out before is chapter 7, and more usually it's about paragraph 7.)


	26. Father of the Bride

The wedding had been absolutely beautiful – Arwen and Argorn's that is. Between them, Boromir and Faramir had absolutely excelled themselves. Fabulous yet tasteful! And what was even better, Boromir and Éowyn had been inseparable ever since that day at Cormallen. Which of course left the field free as regards Faramir. I mean, tall, dark, handsome, brave, impeccable taste and unlike most blokes, it appeared that he actually liked big weddings and enjoyed planning them... I had to be the luckiest tenth (or eleventh or twelfth or whatever I was) walker ever. I started to daydream about claiming the first dance with him at the ball later. But my daydream was rather rudely interrupted by Charlize.

“The staff at the bar and the buffet... Purple streak in that one's hair... the one next to her - nose piercing... and pulling a pint - rose tattoo on her right shoulder... next one along- birthmark on her arm that she seems terribly embarrassed about but which actually is kind of cute to all the men in the room... are they...?”

“Well spotted,” said Galadriel, who had floated up beside us, bearing a plate of canapés and a drink ( canapés – the man even took care of the tiny details most people would overlook). “Yes, they're all Mary-Sues. It's a way of making them useful, since so many of them start out in related lines of work.”

“What? How?” asked Charlize.

“And how come we're here on the guest list and not serving the canapés?” added Ruth.

“You know how one of the list of Mary Sue traits is that she should either have the same dead-end job as you, or the sort of wildly exciting job you aspire to. So she might start out as a barrista in a coffee shop prior to a tragic incident involving the latté frother which leads to her untimely death and arrival in ME with what she thinks are hideous scars but which in no way detract from her beauty in the eyes of the love interest. The dead-end-ness of the job is of course a crucial part of the tragic back-story. The writer's creativity and originality goes stifled and unrecognised by all around her, and it is only when she arrives in Middle Earth that she can flower and blossom, into the wondrous being she has always known herself to be, deep inside. Alternatively aspirational Sues should have the job you wish you had, such as being a cutting edge environmental activist who volunteers for Medecins sans Frontiers in her spare time, or conceptual artist who also runs a soup kitchen for homeless people. Well, that means we have lots of young women with experience of the catering industry (and none whatsoever of environmental activism, practising medicine in combat zones or conceptual art – well, unless you count the body piercings...)”

“So how come we're not behind the bar?” Ruth asked again.

“Well, thanks to Charlize writing a slightly better class of story, you're not actually quite Sues. And although you came here with your own backgrounds – flaky school girl, nerdy school girl, brainy student, teenage boy with more hormones than is good for him (actually, from what I hear, that's pretty much all teenage mortals of both sexes) – that's just who you were, not any attempt to underline your angst ridden upbringing.”

“I've got a question,” muttered Darren, through a mouthful of smoked salmon and pastry. “What's a canapé?”

“My mum says it's the biggest thing a lady can get in her mouth at one go,” I said.

Darren gave a lecherous grin. “Never heard it called that before.” Charlize hit him on the arm, quite hard.

“Hormones,” said Galadriel, shaking her head.

At last it was time for the moment I was itching to get to – the throwing of the bouquet. (To think if you'd asked me a month back, I'd have said it was all a waste of time. That was before I saw my Ranger for the first time). We made our way outside to the courtyard where the remains of the white tree were (pay attention at the back there – Aragorn hadn't gone to get the sapling yet, due to the usual confusion over timelines occasioned by this being a mash-up of movie-verse and book-verse). Arwen looked absolutely stunning. She had an incredible lath... laeth... hwlaith... jewelled thing in her hair (damn those non-native-speaker writers of fanfic with a bigger English vocabulary than mine...). She stood on a dais, her hands filled with roses (“Roses from Imloth Melui. How romantic,” Éowyn whispered in my ear).

However, just as she readied herself to throw them, she glanced up, and froze. Her attention fixed on a point in the distance, up the mountain. There, climbing a spur of rock towards the summit of Mount Mindolluin was none other than her father, Lord Elrond the half-elven. In his father-of-the-bride outfit.

I should backtrack at this point and describe the father-of-the-bride outfit. I have never seen anything like it outside of photos of the Rio Carnival. It was a figure hugging red and gold number, with a bustle of all things and an immense train trimmed with dyed ostrich feathers. There was an elaborate head-dress which fanned out like a peacock's tail, of matching ostrich feathers. The whole thing was scattered with sequins and diamante, and caught the late afternoon sun.

Arwen let out a deep sigh, then said in the most cut-glass accent imaginable, “Oh Gods, that's just what this country needs. A cock... in a frock... on a rock...”

~o~O~o~

I didn't catch the bouquet. Éowyn did. Still, never mind, the ballroom was a sparkling marble and gold delight. And the food was exquisite. To my disappointment, I didn't end up anywhere near Faramir at the meal – he was on another table. But I did have Legolas and Gimli for company.

“Hi, I'm Firielwendibago, your waitress for the evening,” said the girl with the pink streak in her hair just above her left eye.

“Are you really?” said Legolas, raising one eyebrow.

“No, just kidding. I'm Mary Sue. Mary Sue from Normal, Idaho – just to distinguish me from the ones from Normal, Illinois, Normal, Ohio, and Normal, Michigan. Oh, and the dozen or so from the various Springfields.”

She brought our food and nearly caused a diplomatic incident. Gimli received a fillet steak, just the medium side of rare. Legolas was given a plate of salad.

“What's this?” asked our favourite Elven Prince, lip curling in disgust.

“It's a really nutritious salad – see, I made sure there were pulses and grains to cover all the amino acid groups. And...” Legolas cut off the Mary Sue in mid sentence.

“But where's my steak?”

“Steak?” said the Mary Sue, sounding horrified. “Meat is murder! All Elves are vegans, aren't they?”

“Oh buggeration. Another bit of fanon. And I'm stuck with a plate of bloody rabbit food.” Legolas put his head in his hands. Gimli put a fond hand on his shoulder and turned to the waitress.

“Just get him a steak, there's a good lass. Rare, bordering on blue.”

The Mary Sue fled, looking as if the foundations of her world had been rocked. Fortunately, the rest of the meal passed without incident. The food was delicious, and the Mary Sue got replaced by one from... Illinois? Michigan? Anyway, one that was prepared to serve Legolas the food he actually wanted. 

I watched as the servants moved the tables out of the way to clear the dance floor. The band were tuning up, Boromir was holding his shieldmaiden's hand ready for the first dance and I was strategically placed next to him and his younger brother. Suddenly, Éowyn stiffened.

“Oh, Béma's horse's arse's piles.” (It is yet another of the many rules of fanon that all Rohirrim have to swear a lot, and very elaborately with references to obscure – or indeed, less obscure – parts of Béma's anatomy or that of his horse).

“What's the matter, love?” asked Boromir anxiously.

“Behind that pillar – oh Béma's manly left-shoulder carbuncle, they are making such a spectacle of themselves. And Éomer's seen them!”

There, behind the pillar, were Haradrim assassin Lothíriel and Hephaistion, mid snog. Neither of their choices of outfit left much to the imagination – they seemed to have on matching gauzy harem pants and crop tops, with rather fetching veils and jewellery. 

“Matching outfits... how tacky,” said Faramir in a languid voice. I smirked. Underneath that urbane, polite exterior he could be as cutting as Arwen. That boded well. I didn't want him to turn out to be some sort of goody-two-shoes, so perfect that you had no hope of a good...

“Éomer looks gutted,” Boromir interjected.

“Oh dear, he really must have loved Lothíriel a lot. I never would have guessed from the chapter in the log cabin,” I said. All three of them gave me yet another one of those looks. I became aware of a hand in the small of my back, and turned to see Ruth, a serious expression on her face. She whispered so quietly only I could hear.

“Chin up. Just keep smiling for Arwen's sake.” I was totally flummoxed by this, but before I could ask her what she meant, Boromir spoke again.

“Brother, dear, do you think you could go and cheer him up a bit.” He gave a knowing grin.

“Hmm, tall leggy blonde. What's not to like?” said Faramir, and winked back at his brother.

“Precisely,” said Boromir. “Works for me.” Éowyn dug him in the ribs with her elbow, but laughed at the same time.

Faramir turned and walked across the ballroom. For once, his usual cat-like grace (and shapely rear view) didn't reduce me to instant mush. Instead a hideous suspicion began to grow in my mind.

“Ruth,” I said, “What does Bain hacha mean?”

“Hacha bain,” she corrected, in that automatic but slightly irritating way that natural linguists have about them. “Literally, 'beautiful buttocks,' but I suppose depending on context” - she threw an assessing glance in the direction of the retreating Ranger of Ithilien - “'nice arse' would also cover it.”

And with that, my carefully constructed fantasy came crashing round my ears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prior to Hugo Weaving's appearance as Elrond in the Lord of the Rings, one of his earlier film roles was of course as a gay drag queen in Priscilla Queen of the Desert!


	27. The Morning after the Night Before

I woke with a splitting headache, the worst I'd had for, ooh, a whole three weeks (since I came to after the battle at the Black Gates). Wincing and doing my best not to move at all, I tried to piece together the previous night's events. There had been the sight of Faramir, standing next to Éomer, making him laugh, fetching him goblets of wine, smiling at him, casually touching his elbow in a way that could have been just friendly but somehow seemed like more. In short all the things I'd dreamed he would do for me. Then there had been the goblets of wine Ruth kept fetching for me, markedly not accompanied by casual-but-not-quite-casual touches. Then there had been a young Rohir, still in his teens. And a lot of drunken snogging. Maybe even a bit of groping. Mutual groping, I think. Very enjoyable mutual groping... And then my memory failed me. Oh goodness, what had I got up to?

Cautiously, half expecting to see a mess of blond hair and a scrappy beard next to me on the pillow, I opened one eye. (I'd snogged someone with a beard... how the hell had that happened?) Well, it was my bed. So far, so good. And no Rohir as far as I could tell, which on the whole I think I was relieved about. Maybe just a tad disappointed, but on the whole relieved. Gradually the room came into focus. Sitting on the windowsill, brushing her hair, was Ruth.

“Back in the land of the living?”

“Doesn't feel like it. Sure this isn't one of the circles of Hell we did in general studies last term?”

“So, last night...”

“Don't remind me!”

“He seemed rather cute. What was he called?”

“Um... err... Something-helm. Or something like that. I don't actually know.”

Ruth howled with laughter.

“Uh, Ruth,” I said, rather cautiously. “What actually happened? I mean... how far...”

Ruth grinned at me. “Don't worry, I rescued you before things went too far. Not that I have anything against that sort of thing in the grand scheme of things, at least when everyone knows what it is they're getting into and is totally up for it, but not when the parties involved are drunk to the stage of insensibility. That's really not good news. So I got hold of Darren and we carried you home between us.”

She walked over to the table and poured out a cup of some liquid.

“Here, Earcongota says this will fix you up. And Beregond says he's thinking of marrying her simply for her hangover cures.”

I took a cautious sip. Hideous.

“Go on, down in one...” Ruth said.

I gulped down the disgusting liquid then sat very still, clenching my jaw in a desperate effort not to bring it straight back up again. After a minute or so I managed to speak.

“I can't believe I disgraced myself at Arwen's wedding. I'll never be able to look her in the eye again.”

“Oh, don't worry about that,” said Ruth cheerfully. “She said you were better than a cabaret act.” 

I sat there willing the ground to swallow me up, but it didn't seem to want to oblige. Eventually I decided I needed some fresh air, and went for a turn in the garden. Ruth waved me goodbye, saying she was going to have a look at some Sindarin poetry she'd borrowed from Hurin of the Keys (yes, annoyingly, her Sindarin was now good enough to read poetry). I started out thinking I'd take a turn along the walls, but I rounded the second watch tower and almost tripped over Charlize and Darren mid smooch. Not what I wanted in my current frame of mind. So I headed back down into the main bit of the garden among the formal rose beds, and found myself face to face with Boromir and Éowyn. At least they weren't actually exploring each other's tonsils, but he had her hands wrapped in his, they were doing the whole “gazing into each other's orbs” thing, and he was clearly in the middle of whispering sweet nothings to her. 

Okay, so the steps up to the wall were out of the question – that was gooseberry territory. And the path to the rose garden was out of the question – more gooseberry territory. If I was going to avoid being a green and hairy fruit to one couple or the other, that left the small path round the side of the building beside the herb garden. To avoid myself any further embarrassment and green hairiness, I practically sprinted down the gravel. Then skidded to a halt as I found myself in a cul-de-sac, beneath an open window... an open window with noises coming from it...

Male grunting noises which, inexperienced as I was, only allowed of one possible interpretation. Oh man, I was just fated to be the spare wheel today... Then suddenly I managed to make out some words. 

“Desiccated coconut...”

This murmur was accompanied by an odd kind of groan, and a soft moan. There was silence. Then I heard two male voices, one Gondorian-accented and apologetic, one Rohirric and puzzled, more or less simultaneous with one another.

“Oh Valar, I'm sorry...”

“Desiccated coconut?” The Rohirric voice gave a warm chuckle.

“I was trying to think of something else... you know, to slow things down...”

Another chuckle. “It didn't work.” Another moment of silence, then the same voice continued in a soft, affectionate tone, “Hey, don't worry, it's happened to all of us... I'm sure it'll be fine later on...”

“Later on? You weren't going to... I mean, I thought this was just a one-night, cheer you up a bit thing...”

“Well, Gondor now has a King, and a Steward... are you really telling me the Steward's little brother has such a full calendar he needs to run off straight away?”

“'Spose not... But this is just a casual, y'know, whatever it is, isn't it?”

I leaned back against the wall and slid down it, coming to rest on the gravel. I would never be able to un-hear what I'd just heard. All sorts of swear words which I'm not allowed to say in a T rated fic came to mind, along with a hideous twisting sensation in the pit of my stomach. I wondered if I was about to lose Earcongota's hangover cure. Then all of a sudden I saw the funny side of what I'd just heard. Bloody hell, men and their committment-phobia, I thought to myself. But it seemed they were both happy with the situation, because the Rohirric voice continued. 

“Yeah, of course. Casual is fine. I'm going back to Edoras in three days time after all. Got a kingdom to run and all that...”

Then I heard the rustling of fabric, and Éomer, laughing, and saying “Where are you going? … Hello, do I know you?” As quietly as I could, given the gravel underfoot, I edged my way back along the path. I'd take my chances with interrupting Boromir and Éowyn in the rose garden. At least in an ostensibly public place, they were less likely to be in quite as compromising a situation as their brothers.

No one saw hide nor hair of Éomer and Faramir for the next three days. When they finally emerged, on the morning Éomer was meant to return to the Mark, it was with the news that, as soon as arrangements could be made, Rohan would have a new Prince Consort. So much for casual-y'know-whatever-it-ises. And as the announcement was made, I thought I saw a slightly manic glint in Boromir's eye: he'd spotted another opportunity to organise a big wedding. In fact, given their father's demise, I could see the cog wheels going round as he realised he might be able to be both one of the best men and give one of the grooms away.

~o~O~o~

 

However, that was three days from now. Right now, I retreated cautiously up the gravel path (though I was pretty sure they were sufficiently distracted that I could have break-danced on the bloody stones and it wouldn't have registered). In the end I didn't need to interrupt Éowyn and Boromir: as I rounded the corner of the building, I nearly collided with Charlize and Darren. 

“Hiya,” said Darren. “How's your head?” Somehow, I thought, evil grins looked just that bit more evil when accompanied by fangs. I rolled my eyes, not bothering to answer.

“Ruth's gone up to the king's palace. Arwen's invited all of us to go up there and hang out with her and her maids-in-waiting,” said Charlize.

“Shouldn't she be on honeymoon or something,” I asked.

“According to Ruth that's a 19th and 20th century invention and would be deeply anachronistic in this culture,” Charlize explained. “Besides which, Aragorn's got his work cut out getting Gondor back into some sort of decent shape and hasn't got time for that sort of thing.”

The three of us made our way up the winding avenue that was the main street of the Citadel. It zig-zagged up the hill, cutting through the various gates between circles until eventually we arrived outside the palace in the seventh circle. At the gate were two guards in the livery of the Tower, sable with argent tree and stars on their surplices. One was a typical Gondorian, just over six feet tall, dark haired, grey eyed. The other was about four foot, with curly hair on his head... and his feet.

“Pippin,” cried Charlize, and gave him a hug. The tall man at his side eyed Darren suspiciously.

“It's all right,” said Pippin. “This Uruk is a good Uruk, fought on our side at Cormallen. And besides which, he knows loads of dirty limericks and makes really good cheese and mushrooms on toast.”

“You can cook?” said Charlize, looking up at him with a disgustingly dewy-eyed expression. I felt my earlier nausea returning.

Pippin said, “Arwen's expecting you,” and gestured for us to follow him. We made our way through impressive pillared halls, up a sweeping oval staircase and out through a carved archway into a beautiful garden. There, at the far end, were Arwen and Ruth, side-by-side on a bench. To one side we could see the “Cray” twins, apparently whittling bits of wood or something similar, but looking rather grumpy about it. 

To the other side were another couple of figures, looking like the security detail from an American thriller. All they needed to complete the picture were the black suits, aviator shades and curly wires from their earpieces to their collars. Instead they were dressed in typical Middle-Earth clothes, but their stance and the way they constantly scanned the perimeter just screamed “Secret Service... Must protect FLOTUS at all costs” - or perhaps that should be “must protect FLOG”, though that seemed like a very unfortunate acronym for Arwen to be saddled with. The figures themselves were rather strange looking – squat (about 5'7” or so, much shorter than your typical Gondorian) and built like the proverbial brick outhouse. One had a relatively pale complexion and piercing blue eyes, the other was somewhat swarthier and had brown eyes. And both had just the hint of brow-ridges.

Suddenly it struck me. “Oh my God, they look like the end result of an MPreg between Darren and Faramir.”

“Oi,” said Darren, “I don't swing that way. I mean, not that I've got anything against the bloke, but... just... no. No way.”

Arwen practically fell off the bench laughing. “Not far off. These are my husband's cousins, Hastogur and Gronguron. They're from, erm, what you might call 'the Dunlending Hillbilly' branch of the family. Other than Aragorn, the rest of his family don't really have much to do with them.”

The cousins deigned to give a curt nod in our direction, then went back to scanning the perimeter.

“So,” said Arwen, “Sophie. I see you adhere to the old adage 'The best way to get over a man is to get under a new one.'” She laughed her beautiful bell-like laugh and I felt my cheeks catch fire. Fortunately I was saved from having to answer by the kerfuffle that suddenly started over where the twins were.

Scanning the perimeter is all well and good, but it doesn't protect you against that most dangerous of all enemies, the Mary Sue, because they can materialise anywhere within a story – and one chose this moment to materialise right beside Elrohir and Elladan. Hastogur and Gronguron came running over, then skidded to a halt, clearly uncertain as to what to make of this strange creature with electric blue hair and a tattoo of a dolphin on her shoulder.

“So, boys, I know most self-inserts want to be with Leggy or Haldir, or have some sort of weird BDSM thing going with daddy Thranduil, but actually I just want you. Both of you.”

Now by this stage in the story I had seen the Elrondion twins carve swathes through the advancing hordes of Mordor like a hot knife through butter. I hadn't even seen then blink, much less blench. But they blenched now. They looked frankly terrified. But then the Sue halted, half way towards reaching out to run her hair through Elladan's raven locks.

“Is that ivory you're carving? IVORY?” she screamed.

“It's a mumak tusk. Our sister suggested we take up scrimshawing,” Elladan's lip curled in distaste at this point, “As a stress-reliever. They,” he gestured to the Dunlending Hill-billies, looking if anything even more disdainful, “Suggested it!”

“Mumak? Haven't you heard of CITES?” The twins' baffled expressions indicated that they had not. “The Convention on International Trade in Endangered Species?” My goodness, it was an eco-warrior Sue. “You disgust me,” she shouted, then turned heel and stomped out of the garden. Oh well, maybe she'd manage to find vegan Mary Sue and they could go into business together and set up a whole-food shop and yoga studio or something. The twins heaved a sigh of relief. 

But the broo-ha-ha wasn't done yet. While Arwen's security detachment were distracted, another figure had appeared in the garden, a slightly gangly youth with long blond hair and a wispy beard. He looked a bit familiar. Could he be a surfer-dude Gary Stu? Then he spoke.

“Sophie, don't you remember me? It's Pintelhelm, from last night...” He held out a slightly wilted bunch of daisies and an earthenware jug. “I wondered if you'd like to come and have a walk in the Pelennor fields with me, maybe have a cup of mead.”

Behind me, Charlize muttered, “Diamond White in the local park, classy first date.”

Darren laughed and said, “N'ah, he's trying to impress his lay-dee. It's probably Lambrini.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With thanks to Queef Queen for letting me borrow Ashtuzual's offspring.
> 
> And I like to think that by producing a slash version of _Better than Sex_ , I have improved upon the original by removing its _Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus_ subtext.


	28. Return of the Living Dead

I was still wondering what I'd said wrong. Pintelhelm and I had sat in a corner of the garden, just far enough from the others to have a private conversation. It had seemed to be going okay - a little stilted at first, but surely that was just because of the whole 'morning after the night before' thing. I thought we'd started to relax and feel comfortable with each other, and I was actually quite enjoying his company when suddenly he went all stiff and formal, made his excuses and left.

"Not going for a walk on the Pelennor after all?" Darren asked.

"Well I would have done, but I seem to have offended him. But I can't think what I said wrong."

"Who was he," said a deep voice from behind me. I turned to find that while I'd been chatting to the young Rohir, Arwen had been joined by Aragorn.

"One of Elfhelm's Riders. We got. .. err..." I blushed at this point. "Quite friendly last night. He's called Pintelhelm."

Aragorn's eyebrows shot up almost to his hair line. "You didn't by any chance call him that to his face?"

"Yes... just before he went all hurt and stomped off."

"And are you absolutely sure you heard his name right? I mean, he's got a cut just above his eye, only just healing up. Are you sure it might not have been that his nickname's Bindelhelm?" Aragorn asked, in a kindly, slightly cautious tone of voice.

Arwen looked at her husband. "Oh, of course - you speak Rohirric. What's Sophie just called her new swain?"

"Gwib harn," said Aragorn. All the Sindarin speakers started to laugh. Arwen laughed so hard she fell off the bench she was sitting on.

"Oh God, what's she said?" asked Darren.

One of the disreputable cousins said something in Black Speech. Darren doubled up laughing. Eventually, between snorts of laughter, he managed to speak.

"Oh my God. Sophie, you've gotta run after the poor guy and apologise. You just called him 'Dickhead'."

For a moment I was frozen, desperately hoping the ground would swallow me up. Then, cheeks flaming, I scrambled to my feet and headed off through the palace at a run. I pounded down the steep street that led down through the city towards the gate, getting more and more breathless and slower and slower. I finally managed to catch up with Pintelhelm or whatever it was he was called just before the main gate, by which time I was a sweaty, gasping mess.

“I'm sorry... I mis...heard... your... name.” I bent double, hands on my knees, and gulped down as much air as I could. 'Pintelhelm' looked at me with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Aragorn... said he thought your name... was probably Bindelhelm. And it was a nickname...”

“Aragorn?” said the Rohir. “What, you mean, the King of Gondor? Oh Béma, are they all laughing at me?”

“No, they're all laughing at me. Not for the first time. I kind of have a knack for putting my foot in it or getting the wrong idea.” I looked at him expectantly. Suddenly he gave a shy grin.

“Actually, he's right, it is a nickname. This time last week my head was covered in bandages – headwound – bled like a stuck pig!”

“Don't they just? I got belted on the head at Cormallen, felt like my head was going to explode for about two days afterwards.”

“My name's really Edric.” He looked at me and blushed. “Uh, this is a bit embarrassing. I don't think I actually know what your name is.”

“Sophie.” It was my turn to blush a bit.

“So, do you want to go for that walk?” I nodded, and Edric suddenly reached out and took my hand and led me off through the gate.

 

~o~O~o~

The walk was very nice. It turned out that Edric was one of our Shirley's own OCs from her Farawyn smut. The poor guy. One moment he'd been a likeable, workaday OC, there to supply a bit of background colour. The next he'd found himself as the expendable OC, there to underline that the main characters were realistic, and flawed, and capable of making bad decisions. Which is how he came to find himself lying flat on his back, dead, in a clearing in the Firien Wood, with an arrow sticking out of him.

“Fortunately, she was quite fond of me and has been feeling a bit guilty ever since. Not guilty enough to take up the suggestion of killing off Windfola instead – apparently she thought that was a 'Disney-esque cop-out.' But guilty enough to come and get me out of character limbo and give me a second chance.”

The more I talked to him, the more I realised he was actually very sweet – gentle, kind, bright and interesting to talk to.

We wandered around for a bit, hand in hand. As I said – very nice walk. Then we found a secluded corner. And, umm, had a very nice snog. My sober opinion turned out to match up with the impression I formed while completely pissed: Edric is a very good kisser – much better than either Colin Postlethwaite from year 10 or Byronic mad-bad-and-dangerous-to-know aggressively het Legolas way back in chapter 5. And I found that the beard really didn't bother me in the slightest (not that there was much of one... just a few wisps here and there).

After a few hours I rather reluctantly said goodbye to Edric, and promised I'd come and find him in Elfhelm's camp the next day. Then I headed back up to see what was going on in the palace.

 

~o~O~o~

 

I shouldn't have bothered. The meeting droned on and on. Ruth was paying attention to all the stuff about weregild for the dead Rohirrim, and reparations for the coastal provinces who'd lost men in the war, and repatriation of Haradrim and Orcish prisoners. Charlize and I were treating it like a really dull history lesson come to life and napping quietly in the corner. I wished I was still out in the sunshine with Edric. Suddenly the door to the council chamber swung open. A square jawed man walked in. He wore a tweed suit with a tie, and his dark hair was brilliantined in place with a side parting. He looked curiously at all of us, and at his surroundings. Then he chewed thoughtfully, pulled out a pocket hankie, and spat something into it.

“I do apologise, but I'm afraid that apple was rather bitter,” he said. 

“Is it Tolkien himself?” whispered Charlize.

“No, doesn't look at all like the Professor,” Ruth whispered back. 

From behind us, there was a deep throated “Squeee,” and Darren pushed past us.

“Oh, wow, oh! You are, like, the man! You are my hero,” he said, holding out a leathery, beclawed paw towards the man in the tweed suit. The latter recoiled slightly, but then 1950s British politeness came to the fore, and he cautiously took the Uruk's hand. Darren shook his hand with great vigour before turning to the rest of us. “This is Alan Turing,” he said, in a tone of absolute awe.

“How do you recognise Alan Turing?” I asked.

“You're doing it again...” said Darren, sounding both cross and resigned.

“Doing what?”

“The whole 'Darren' thing. Just because I'm called Darren and don't read Shakespeare doesn't mean I'm thick. I'm bloody good with computers. And when it comes to computers – this guy was God. Turing computability, the halting problem, Bletchley Park...” the Uruk's voice trailed off, overcome by emotion.

Turing seized the lull in the conversation to ask the obvious question. “Where am I?””

“You might like to sit for this bit,” said Ruth, stepping forward. She guided him over to a low stone bench at the side of the chamber and sat beside him. “I think you've died and fallen into a fantasy novel, the Lord of the Rings.” She patted him on the hand reassuringly. “The whole thing of dying and going to Middle Earth – where we are at the moment – seems to happen a lot. Though usually it's car-loads of teenagers, rather than seminal figures in the history of computing. But I am sorry to spring it all on you like this.”

“Well, the 'died' bit isn't really a shock, seeing as how I just took cyanide. But... Middle Earth?”

“What date was it when you died?” asked Ruth.

“1954,” said Turing.

“Ah, I think that was the year the first volume came out, so I guess you may well not have heard of it. But Middle Earth's really quite a nice place, specially now the war is over, and the good guys have won.”

“Good guys?” said Turing, with a quizzical glance at Darren.

“He's on our side. He just had a bit of an accident getting from our world to this one, and ended up in the wrong body,” said Charlize, leaping to Darren's defence.

“But now we have to decide what to do with you,” I said. From behind me came the sound of a throat being cleared.

“Well, what do … whatever it is you are... need to make you happy?” Arwen asked

“Mathematicians?” said Turing. “An endless supply of paper and pencils. A quiet room. A nice view would be good too.”

“Well, I think you'd quite like it in my father's domain, in Imladris,” said the Queen of Gondor. “Erestor should be able to supply you with lots of parchment and quills, the view is nice, it's lovely and peaceful.”

“Actually, thinking of Erestor...” said Elrohir, raising an eyebrow at his twin.

“Are you thinking what I think you're thinking?” replied Elladan.

“Well, why not? The go-to OC/minor Canon pairing for a slightly nerdy OC. And it'll make a change for him to do slash not involving Ada.”

Arwen and Elladan winced at this last comment. “Yes, slash is fine, but Ada's still, you know, in love with our mother. I mean, I know he likes wearing frocks, but he's not gay, not in this fic anyway.” There was a pointed cough from Éomer at this point, and Elladan hastily added, “After all, it's such a clichéd piece of prejudice to think that effeminacy has anything to do with being gay. Lots of gay men are very masculine.” Éomer nodded approvingly, and I could see Elladan looking relieved at having escaped from his conversational faux-pas. He continued, “But having said all that, given how much he misses Naneth, it's just a bit squicky pairing him off with anyone else, of either sex. It's really bordering on dub-con.”

“Anyway, I think Imladris is the obvious answer, though it is a long journey,” Arwen said.

Faramir piped up, “There's always Hurin of the Keys, if you wanted to stay here. And this is really a very nice place. And, despite of what Elladan just said about his father, for the most part we're really quite laid back about slash in this version of Middle Earth.”

“Slash?” said Turing, slightly puzzled.

“Gay relationships,” said Ruth.

“Gay? Happy?” The mathematician sounded even more puzzled. I suddenly remembered my grandfather commenting on how many words had changed their meanings since he was a young man back in the 1950s.

“Homosexual relationships,” Ruth explained. “They're no big deal here, well, not so long as both parties are happy about it.

“Which we are... very happy,” said Faramir, beaming and reaching out for Éomer's hand.

 

~o~O~o~

Only a couple of events of that council meeting still have to be reported on. Darren got Turing to sign the inside of his right forearm, then went off to the Pelennor fields where some of the surviving Haradrim were camped, and persuaded one of them to tattoo the signature onto his arm. He came back looking very chuffed. 

And I overheard Boromir whispering frantically to Julian and Shaznag – something about “building bridges post war” and “symbolic gestures” and “raprochment” and “diplomacy” and “bridesmaids” and “lots and lots of pink tulle – is pink her colour?” What the heck could connect all of those, I wondered?

Julian went up to the battlements, stuck a couple of fingers in his mouth and gave a loud whistle. A few moments later there was a flapping noise, then one of the great fell beasts soared down and landed awkwardly on the top of the nearby guard tower. Julian scrambled onto its back, Shaznag took up his customary position as pillion passenger, and the great beast took off, heading East.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back when I wrote this, over on the fanfiction site, I was taking "reader requests", and (following the chapter in which I mentioned Alan Turing in passing) someone asked me to give him a happy ending... or so I thought!


	29. Cross purposes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so you remember that reader request for a happy ending for Alan Turing? Well, here's what happened next!

_  
[The Halls of Mandos. Mandos sits at a wooden desk, writing in his ledger with a quill pen. Enter Túrin Turambar, stage left.]_

Túrin Turambar: I have been ill treated within the realms of fanfic. I wish to bring a suit for breach of promise. I demand that the Valar sit in judgement on my case.

Mandos: Ill treated within the realms of fanfic? Turin, you're losing your sense of perspective. _[Stage whisper to audience]_ Not for the first time in his life, but then you can hardly blame the bloke. _[Continues in normal voice]_ Túrin, my friend, what can a mere writer of fanfic have done to you that is in any way worse than the endless litany of woes visited on you by the Professor himself?

Túrin Turambar: The author in question has held out to me the tantalising promise of false hope.

Mandos: And this is worse than, let me see, having to flee your childhood home, accidentally killing your foster-father's advisor and having to flee again, accidentally killing your best friend having mistaken him for an orc, failing to notice a king's daughter was in love with you until your new best friend (who had always loved her and was now dying) told you to look after her shortly before she got kidnapped by a dragon from under your nose, then getting distracted from rescuing her by a spell, then remembering about her only to track her then find she'd been killed by orcs, then falling for the woman your even newer best friend was in love with (having found her on the grave of the previous love of your life), marrying her, going in pursuit of the dragon, getting your even newer best friend killed in the process only to find that the woman you'd married was your sister. 

Túrin: Now you come to put it like that...

Mandos: Precisely, it sounds like something a particularly angsty teenage Muriel might have written. So how can you possibly complain about anything in fanfic?

Túrin: Because this was different. No angst, no death, no incestuous relationships with my sister while under the influence of dragon spells. Just a promise of a happy ending. A happy ending for once in my life... and err, afterlife.

Mandos: Very well. _[Claps hands. The rest of the Valar appear as if by magic. A dock appears in the corner of the hall, and a small, rumpled middle-aged woman with glasses materialises in it]._

Elbereth: Small, rumpled middle-aged woman, you stand accused of breach of promise. The plaintive, Túrin Turambar, son of Húrin, claims that you did, within your work of fanfiction, Groundhog GDIME, hereafter to be known that talentless piece of drivel, promise him a happy ending.

SRMAW: It was all a terrible misunderstanding.

Manwë: Pray do continue.

SRMAW: Well, I've been crowd-sourcing my fic...

Manwë _[in an aside to Tulkas]_ : Crowd-sourcing?

Tulkas: A phrase used in connection with social media, M'Lud. It usually refers to someone who wants to get the creative donkey-work for a project done by someone else without having to pay them for their creative input. Either because they're too lazy to do the work themselves, or know that their imagination isn't up to the task.

Manwë: Ah, I see. _[Turning to the Shirley]_ So, while engaged in this blatant act of plagiarism, how did you come to make a promise of a happy ending to Mr. Turambar here?

SRWMAW: I didn't. One of my reviewers reviewed a chapter in which I made a passing reference to Turing. We then exchanged some PMs.

Yavanna _[In a low aside]_ : It's like a letter, M'Lud.

Manwë: So you entered into correspondence with this other fan-ficcer?

SRMAW: Yes, and I mentioned that I was crowd-sourcing the fic.

Valar _[in concert]_ : Picking other people's brains.

SRMAW: Whatever... anyway she said “can you give a happy ending to Turin?” And because the PM facility doesn't support accents so there was no acute accent on the 'u', and this arose in connection with a chapter where I'd mentioned Turing, I thought it was just a typo. Then when I PM-ed her to say I was giving a happy ending to Turing, she thought that was a typo on my part, and that I'd simply never read _The Silmarillion._

Manwe: Well, I suppose that last bit's pretty plausible. Very few of the fan-ficcers on this site have read it. In fact there's a fairly sizeable minority who haven't even read The Lord of the Rings and are basing their fics entirely on the film versions.

SRMAW: So then I gave Alan Turing a happy ending, and my correspondent got in touch to say that though it was very nice that I'd done that, in fact she had meant Túrin Turambar all along.

Manwe: Well, I think we've heard all the evidence now. We'll retire to deliberate. We'll return when we've reached a verdict.

_[The Valar disappear. After an hour or so they return to the makeshift courtroom]._

Manwe: Having heard all the evidence, we find the defendant not guilty. _[Continuing in an undertone]_ If nothing else in virtue of insanity.

Túrin: But what about me?

Manwe: Good point. Small rumpled middle-aged woman, as an act of good faith, do you think you could possibly conjure up a happy ending for Mr. Turambar?

SRMAW: Oh dear, I was hoping you wouldn't ask. I mean, you've heard Mandos' version of his life story. Not even the scriptwriters for the Muppets could conjure a happy ending out of that raw material.

Mandos: She's right, you know. And I didn't even mention all the violence, murder and mayhem he perpetrated along the way.

Túrin: So I don't get a happy ending?

SRMAW _[Taking a good look at Túrin for the first time]_ :Mmm, wikipedia wasn't kidding when it described you as one of the fairest men ever to have lived.. "dark-haired and pale-skinned, ... his face more beautiful than any other among mortal Men, in the Elder Days." Wow, you're up there to rival Faramir... Maybe I could have a think about it...

Manwe: Hang on, Wikipedia? I thought you said you'd read the _Silmarillion._

SRMAW _[Shifting uncomfortably in the dock]_ : Well, not since my teens. I did read it twice though. But it's been thirty years...

Túrin: Oh, for Valinor's sake, just take me back to the Halls of Waiting. _[Exit very grumpy Túrin, stage left]._

The Valar: And thus though there be many angsty fics  
There's none compares to Tolkien's own grim tricks.

_[Exeunt]_


	30. A plague of biblical proportions

It was the next day when Julian and Shaznag returned, with a third pillion passenger. Boromir had brought Eowyn up to the walls to meet the new arrival.

“Love, this is Shaznag's shauk, Vashtath,” Boromir said, indicating the small orcess standing holding Shaznag's hand, looking rather shy. Shaznag gave us all one of his huge, toothy (fangy?) grins, and Vashtath gave a rather uncertain half smile.

“I thought,” Boromir continued, “That in the spirit of post-war glasnost and perestroika, you might consider having her as a bridesmaid.”

“Why is Boromir suddenly chucking random Russian words into his speech?” Ruth whispered in an undertone. 

“I don't know,” I hissed back, “But if I know our Shirley, all will be revealed before very much longer.” 

Our whispered conversation was interrupted by Arwen.

“Boromir, give the girl a chance to think about it. Eowyn, dear, why don't you and Vashtath go into my private garden and have a chat, get to know each other. What do you like to do?” she said to the little orcess.

“Fight,” the Orcess replied.

“Oh good, well that's great that you have a common interest to start from,” said Arwen, sounding relieved. “Why not go and compare swords or something?” She led all of us into the garden, glaring at Boromir in a 'don't you dare follow us' sort of way.

~o~O~o~

An hour or so later I peered down from the walls. Eowyn and Vashtath were clearly getting on like a house on fire. Eowyn had her long, double handed battle sword, Vashtath a shorter, curved sword and a shield. They alternated between sparring sessions, close comparison of their weapons, and demonstrating moves to one another. All of a sudden, they were interrupted by Boromir, who came into the garden, a vast bundle of fluffy pink tulle in his arms. He put it down. He spoke and his voice drifted up on the breeze to where I stood.

“I thought this would be absolutely perfect for the bridesmaids' dresses,” he said cheerfully.

The Rohir and Orcess exchanged a look. Then Éowyn said in an overly bright voice, “Perfect, darling.” 

Boromir didn't pick up on the look, and just beamed at the pair of them, clearly full of blissful anticipation of his big day. He said, “I'll leave you to it, then.” He leant over and gave Éowyn a kiss, which she returned with considerable enthusiasm, until Vashtath coughed.

“Get a cave,” she murmured. Boromir grinned, and gave a cheery wave goodbye.

Once he was out of earshot, Vashtath spoke. “Pink really isn't my colour,” she said, slightly mournfully.

“Don't worry. There was this other fic I was in where I learned all about dyeing cloth. It was about the one girly thing I was really keen on. Well, that and weaving. Just don't get me to do embroidery.” Eowyn gave the Orcess an appraising once-over. “You know, with your greeny-brown colouring and yellow eyes, I think we'll dye this red and orange. You know, your eyes are rather a lovely shade of yellow – almost amber.”

Vashtath brightened visibly.

~o~O~o~

 

After lunch we did some more mooching around. Now the war was over, we spent a lot of time mooching. Pretty much all of us from the main part of the plot were in the main garden – Boromir, Éowyn, Faramir and Éomer, all the G/BDIMEs, Legolas and Gimli...

"Havest I told thou how much I lovest thou?" Boromir gazed soppily at his shield maiden.

"What the heck?" Ruth squeaked. "That makes no sense at all. 'Havest' is not a word and never has been. And even if you were going for that 16th century feel, it would still go 'I have', 'thou hast'. And," Ruth's grammatical outrage hit new levels, “'Thou' is the nominative case, not the accusative.”

“I prithee, canst you forgiveth me?” said Boromir anxiously.

“Argh, 'canst thou', or 'can you' – but don't bloody mix-and-match.” Ruth had her face in her hands now.

“Alack, I know not whatest has gotten into us...” Éowyn began.

“'Gotten'!” yelped Ruth. “Tolkien was English... you can't use Americanisms. And 'whatest' is not a proper word.”

“Actually,” I chirped up, “I did some reading up on Middle English before we came, and gotten is actually an archaic form, and both 'gotten' and 'got' were used in the Middle Ages...”

“Says the woman who didn't know that 'pintel' meant...” Ruth started to retort. But the argument which was about to erupt was interrupted by that TARDIS-like noise we'd encountered on the way to the Black Gates. There was a shimmering, and suddenly the little green tent appeared on the lawn in front of us. The mini Rohir tumbled out, this time wearing a school uniform (liberally adorned with yoghurt and gravy stains, and with a rip in the knee of the grey trousers), followed by our Shirley.

She glared at us then put her finger to her lips. “Be quiet, both of you. I think I know 'whatest is up', but I need to listen to work out where the culprits are.”

Silence descended over the group. For a moment, all we could hear were the birds chirping in the gardens and the distant street noises drifting over the walls. But then we heard the characteristic tappety-tap-tap of a computer keyboard. The Shirley strode forward, thrust her hand into a bush and yanked hard. There was a loud squeal, and she hauled out a much younger woman, wearing a university sweatshirt and jeans, with a streak of blue in her hair. I realised the reason for the squeal was that our Shirley had the Muriel's ear grasped firmly in her right hand. 

She thrust the Muriel towards Darren, saying rather sharply, “Hold onto this one, I think there's a couple more in there.” With a grunt (I began to suspect that our Shirley was not as fit as she had been when she was younger) she dragged out the other two Muriels, one bespectacled just like her, the other dressed in vaguely gothic clothes with a rather malnourished look to her. She beckoned Hastogur and Gronguron over. 

“Can you restrain these two for me? Thanks... Oh, and sorry for the appalling blooper in the last chapter. Borys told me off. It's Orcish you speak, not Black Speech.”

She turned to our resident classical scholar and continued, “Ruth, can I leave their punishment in your able hands? Teach them how to conjugate 'to be', 'to have' and 'to do' and at least one regular verb too... 'to love' usually works doesn't it? And then get them to write out each one a hundred times.”

“I don't think that's enough punishment,” said Ruth.

“Alright,” said the Shirley. “Explain the use of the Greek Aorist mood to them as well, and get them to write a two thousand word essay on it, and also write out five hundred times 'I must never use the phrase _Character X's POV_ in my writing.' That should do it.”

“Can I teach them the subjunctive mood too?” asked Ruth.

“Definitely,” said the Shirley.

Legolas rolled his eyes, and said, “Most assuredly, were the subjunctive to regain currency in common English usage, there would be universal rejoicing throughout all lands.”

Gimli glared at him. “Stop taking the piss out of our Shirley.”

“Would I?” said Legolas, and began to whistle in a display of faux-innocence. This proved to be a big mistake. The mini Rohir came running over and said “You're Legolas,” and climbed onto his knee. After tugging Legolas' ears and investigating them thoroughly, he then launched into a long monologue about his school, how good he was as a goal keeper, his new skateboard, and which were his favourite Moshi Monsters, pausing at intervals to interrogate Legolas on his opinions and check that the Elf was still paying attention. Any lapses in concentration led to the Prince of Mirkwood being roundly told off.

Gimli, meanwhile, eyed our Shirley, then said, “Just as well I'm gay – getting on for my age, wrinkles, short, stout, and (if only you'd walk the walk with your feminist views and stop removing your facial hair) the potential for a quite luxuriant beard... You'd be just the self-insert for me if I was, sorry, were straight.”

The Shirley looked absolutely stunned and slightly panicked. Then I caught an involuntary sideways flicker of her eyes towards... Faramir! I was stunned. She fancied Faramir. And yet she'd made him gay. How on earth did that one work? The Shirley caught me catching her looking, and flushed slightly. 

Arwen gave Gimli a pointed glance, then said sarcastically, “Don't you just love it when men tell you you're not doing feminism right? Especially when they tell you that if only you did it right you'd make yourself so much more attractive to them!” 

The Shirley looked rather heartened by this (but a little disappointed: it was one of those _esprit d'escalier_ moments when someone else comes up with the retort you wish you'd thought of). With a smile for Arwen, she walked over to Leggy and carefully disentangled the small boy, then said goodbye. There was another whooshy-TARDIS noise and the tent disappeared again.

~o~O~o~

Later that afternoon, Ruth, Charlize and I were walking with Arwen when we came upon Pippin and Merry, sitting by a gate in the wall which led to an area previous trips had revealed to be a garden with great expanses of well-tended lawns. The hobbits were eating a hearty post-lunch pre-afternoon-tea snack. From beyond the wall, we could hear a most peculiar set of noises. The set began with girly giggles (one rather deep in pitch, but nonetheless unmistakably feminine), followed by a large thwack, then (simultaneous with each other) rather panicky feminine shrieks and a loud splatting noise.

“What is going on?” asked the Queen of Gondor.

“We've taught Éowyn and Vashtath how to play golf,” said Merry.

“Golf in Middle Earth?” I asked, looking round for signs of more Muriels hiding in bushes writing wildly improbable aspects of our world into Tolkien's story.

“Relax,” said Merry, “It's canon.”

“Yes, my ancestor, Bandobras Took, the Bullroarer, invented it,” Pippin explained. “He led the hobbits in the Battle of the Northfarthing, when mountain goblins invaded the Shire. He bashed the goblin leader's head with a club, and hit it so hard it came off, sailed 200 yards and landed in a rabbit hole. The goblin was called Golfimbul, hence the name.”

“Oh,” I said.

“Eurgh,” said Charlize. Then she wrinkled her nose. “That splatting noise... They're not really using goblin heads?”

“Of course not. Rotten cabbages left over from the siege of Minas Tirith.”

We ducked through the narrow gateway. There, on a slight rise in the lawn, were the shieldmaiden and the Orcess. Éowyn stooped, carefully placed a cabbage by her feet, straightened partially, and swung at it with a wooden club, giving a mighty cry of “Fore” as she made contact.

“Spiffing shot,” said Vashtath appreciatively. I had a feeling that she might have learned her Westron from Julian and the other Deputy Nazgûl. The cabbage sailed high into the air, then plummeted towards a distant group of women, landing amidst them with a great splodge and splattering them liberally with fragments of rotten leaf. The women shrieked loudly.

“Who on earth are they?” asked Ruth.

“Stepford Reviewers,” said Éowyn, grimly.

Arwen saw our puzzled faces and elaborated. “As in the film, Stepford Wives, where any woman who shows the slightest deviation from being a dutiful helpmeet to her man gets turned into an android. This lot write reviews. They particularly dislike fics where Éowyn shows any signs of wanting to remain a person in her own right after she's fallen in leurve.”

“I hope that's the original 70s version, not the hideous 90s re-make,” said Ruth.

“Of course. A dystopian feminist parable and classic B-movie,” said Arwen, her inner film-buff surfacing momentarily.

“They hate it when I show signs of having a mind of my own,” said Éowyn, “and they hate it even more when I don't swoon into the arms of the domineering love interest.”

“But Fa... Boromir isn't domineering. He's just nice and madly in love with you,” Charlize said.

“Mind you, I could handle a bit of being swept off my feet,” I said.

“Pintelhelm being a bit shy, is he?” asked Ruth.

“Edric,” I said defensively. “No, it's all lovely, it's just... well, that fanfic cliché of the huge row and massive misunderstanding which can only be fixed by him brutally kissing you in a way that quickly turns to passion... I feel like I've missed out somewhere along the way.”

“But would you _really_ like that?” asked Arwen.

I nodded guiltily. I may not actually have been thinking about Edric when I said that.

“But think back to chapter 5 – you didn't like it when macho, masterful Byronic Leggy snogged you,” Arwen said.

“But I didn't fancy him,” I said. I hoped that hadn't come out in a whine.

Arwen looked at me as if I was daft. “But was he, or for that matter whoever it is (which I strongly suspect isn't poor old Gwibharn) figures in your fantasy life, able to read your mind? I mean, macho-Leggy just went for it anyway... and your fantasy man would be going for it anyway... For all that sort of man knows, you might rebuff him, or you might melt into his arms. He doesn't care – he's just playing the odds.”

“But once he's worked out you do like it, does it matter?” I asked

“Well think ahead a few years – with a man that overbearing, what happens when you do disagree about something. Do you think there'd be any room for compromise, or do you suppose he'd be overbearing about absolutely everything?”

I mulled this over for a bit.

“I suppose that's why the Stepford Reviewers take such exception to women who have minds of their own. They've probably married just that sort of man, and can only keep things working by being complete doormats – so they're a bit suspicious of women who aren't because it upsets their whole world-view,” said Éowyn.

“I wonder if they're drawn from the same group of women who've started taking selfies of themselves holding up hand drawn placards starting 'I'm not a feminist because...' and posting them on the internet?” Ruth mused.

“Good grief! Women do that? Why?” asked Arwen.

“A friend of mine sent me this brilliant quote, something along the lines of 'It's like saying you really disapprove of cars, but then going on to say you still use them 'cos they're such a neat way of getting around the place',” Ruth said.

“I think it's 'cos they can't get laid and think being totally wet might make them look good to blokes,” said Charlize. “Well, a certain type of bloke. Darren seemed pretty chuffed that I'd kissed him. And I don't see how you can get much more macho than an Uruk. Macho and nice – I think I got lucky there.”

Arwen looked thoughtful. “I think Charlize may be onto something.” She eyed the Stepford Reviewers in the distance, who were milling around glaring at us suspiciously. Then she glanced at the wooden club and the heap of cabbages. “Can I have a go?” she asked.


	31. UST and other technical tricks of the trade

After much discussion, Boromir and Faramir came to the conclusion that they really wanted a double wedding. Because Faramir was marrying a king, protocol dictated that it take place in the Riddermark: Boromir said this was okay with him as Gondor had had its turn at a big knees up for Arwen and Aragorn's wedding. So finally, a great cavalcade of us set off on the return journey to Edoras. Charlize and Darren rode Dobbin (the sturdiest of our horses), Ruth got Pet Food, and I ended up with Glue.

One interesting discovery is that after millenia of practise, most elves no longer need to look where they're going when the horse is only walking, so they read or stream movies as they ride (yes, they seem to have embraced technology from our world with great enthusiasm). The Cray twins seemed to favour Jack Reacher novels and true-life SAS adventures. Elrond was watching _The Devil Wears Prada_. Arwen, inspired by our recent run-in with the Stepford Reviewers, was reading Dworkin's _Right Wing Women._ Galadriel had borrowed Boromir's much thumbed copy of _Lace_ (non-Elven version). Celeborn appeared to be watching a series of you-tube “how to” vids on grouting your bathroom. Which, I suppose, explained why Galadriel was reading _Lace._

It turns out that I am not the sort of girl that boys fight over. They fight over my horse instead. Edric made the mistake of laughing at Glue within Julian's earshot. Next thing I knew, the turncoat ex-deputy Nazgûl was squaring up to my “swain”, fists held high, all over the honour of my nag. His stance indicated that clearly he believed in the Marquis of Queensbury's rules (he'd confided to me some weeks earlier that he had been to the same public school as most of the Tory cabinet – still, as Jack Lemon's millionaire says at the end of _Some Like it Hot_ , “Nobody's Perfect”).

Unfortunately for both Julian and the Marquis, no-one had told Edric about the etiquette of resorting to fisticuffs in polite society. He ducked under Julian's rather elegant right jab, grabbed him round the middle and wrestled him to the ground. The two of them rolled around in the mud, arms and legs flailing, fists occasionally making contact, until Elfhelm and Faramir waded in, grabbing the two boys and hauling them apart. Elfhelm sent Edric off to shovel up horse manure for a few hours till he calmed down. Strictly speaking the renegade Nazgûl didn't fall under anyone's chain of command. However, Faramir decided that seeing as how Minas Morgul lay in Ithilien, and at least for the time being, he was still Captain of the Ithilien Rangers, the job of disciplining Julian fell to his lot. He sent Julian off to dig latrines.

Strangely enough, after this Edric and Julian started to get on rather well. Darren explained it to me: apparently it's something of a cliché of the genre that among the rank and file, a good punch-up is quite often the precursor to a friendship (though it can go either way – it sometimes leads to lasting hatred). They both seemed to reach a tacit agreement not to talk about Glue, however.

Edric was similarly diplomatic about Glue within my hearing. We didn't get much chance to be alone together, so instead he took to riding along beside me, chatting and giving me tips about my riding. By the end of a week or so, I still looked like a sack of potatoes in the saddle, but at least I was a reasonably competent sack of potatoes who could keep her seat if the horse stumbled or shied at a rabbit.

I was amused at how everyone else entertained themselves on the road. Charlize and Darren seemed to ride along in their own little private world, snuggled together on Dobbin's ample back. Part of the time Ruth chatted to me, or Arwen, or Earcongota (who, when she wasn't talking to us, flirted shamelessly with Beregond and giggled a lot – it turned out Beregond was accompanying Faramir to the Mark, and had asked for the Piss-Prophetess' hand in marriage). Haradrim assassin Lothíriel and Hephaistion had got hold of some finely boned thorough bred horses from the desert, and dashed about the margins of the cavalcade at the gallop, checking for danger, wheeling their horses about on a sixpence and generally looking most impressive.

 

~o~O~o~

After about two weeks we finally crossed the Mering Stream and found ourselves in Rohan at last. Edric told me it was only a few days ride to Edoras, even at the slow pace our group was making. After we'd pitched camp, the “grownups” gathered together

“We need to give the horses a decent run out,” Éomer said. “I think I'll organise some races. Good for morale too.”

Faramir smiled. “Great, can I join in?” He drew his horse level with Firefoot and stretched out a hand to lay it on Éomer's thigh. “Any chance of a race with you? Winner gets to choose the forfeit.” He arched one of those very shapely dark eyebrows.

Éomer laughed. “Much as I'd enjoy choosing the forfeit, it wouldn't exactly be an equal competition now, would it?” He caught sight of Faramir's slightly hurt expression, and hastily added, “Of course, by the same token, I wouldn't stand a chance in an archery competition against you, and sparring with swords, I'd think we'd be pretty equally matched. But when it comes to horses, I think you should race one of the much younger Riders if you want to be in with any chance at all. That way, we have the excitement of thinking things might go either way.”

It took half an hour or so for the squires to mark out the course, by the end of which time, lots had been drawn to establish who was riding against whom in the first race. To my amusement, Faramir got drawn against Edric. Edric came riding over to where I stood with Charlize, Darren, Ruth and Arwen.

“Sophie, would you give me a favour?” he asked.

“Sugared almonds?” I responded without thinking it through.

“No, you numpty. A scarf,” said Arwen.

“Oh, right.” I unwound the hideous green stripy school scarf that I'd been carrying round Middle Earth for months now, and passed it to Edric, who tied it round his bicep... How had I never noticed in the process of snogging him that he actually had quite well put-together biceps? He flashed me a smile, dug his heels into the horse's flanks, wheeled the horse impressively on the spot and cantered over to the start. As he slowed to a trot, I couldn't help but notice the rather nice view his back and, erm, bum provided. I gave my head a shake. What had got into me?

As he, Faramir and two of the other young Riders lined up, I thought about this. The night of the feast, we'd both been very, very drunk, so I hadn't really registered much about him at all. The next day, when he showed up with the daisies, I'd felt too shy. Yes, we'd spent the afternoon kissing, but actually it had been remarkably innocent, both of us feeling a bit awkward, but in a nice way. Then since we all started to ride back to Edoras, there had just been far too many people around to do much more than snatch the odd kiss when no one was looking. This was, strangely enough, the first time I'd ever looked properly at my “swain”, as Arwen insisted on calling him.

He had his horse on a tight rein, and I could see the muscles and sinews in his forearms, moving beneath his skin as he held the huge destrier on the start line. The horse looked like a tightly coiled spring, and I could see the effort it took to hold him in place. With a yell, Elfhelm dropped the flag to signal the start of the race, and Edric gave the horse its head: his mount exploded off the starting line, Faramir not far behind, the two other Rohirrim about a length down within the first couple of hundred metres. (“Furlong”, muttered Julian, when I mentioned this distance).

I got totally absorbed in the race. The course had been marked out in a figure of eight, so there were tight bends in both directions, and everything (as far as I could tell) hinged on who could get to the corners first, and take the tightest line. Faramir was putting up a good fight, but Edric looked like he was part of the horse. He crouched up in the stirrups, knees gripping the horse's sides, stooped forwards over its neck. He didn't seem to be using spurs, just somehow urging the horse forward with the movements of his own body. 

The noise from the crowd was enormous. Éomer had been right – everyone needed the chance to let off a bit of steam after the long ride at relatively slow pace. There were little factions of supporters dotted all around – each Rider was from a different part of the Mark and groups from the East and West Fold, from near Aldburg and near Edoras were all cheering on their men. The Gondorians of course were yelling for Faramir. I was getting hoarse yelling – I'd never realised a race could mean this much to me. My whole body was tense with willing Edric to win. Then I realised with a shock of surprise that it was really Edric I wanted to win, not Faramir.

I found myself holding my breath as he came to the last corner. Faramir dug his heels into his horse's flanks, and for a moment the horse sprang forward, almost drawing level with Edric's. Just for an instant, the Rohir and Gondorian brushed knees as Faramir tried to claim the inside line. I grabbed Charlize's hand and gripped it tight. But somehow Edric shifted his weight, his horse gained half a stride, and the two cut across Faramir's path. With a last push, Edric crossed the line half a length in front of Faramir.

Éomer cantered over to the exhausted Gondorian, and leaned across the gap between them, putting his arm round the other man's shoulders. “You did well – that was much closer than I thought... So I think the forfeit should be something you enjoy.” He leant in closer and whispered something, and Faramir's face took on the most lascivious expression I have ever seen. But suddenly my view of them was blocked by a mountain (sixteen hands according to Julian, whatever that meant) of steaming horse. Edric looked down at me, a broad, triumphant grin on his face.

“Your favour did the trick,” he said, and stretched out his arm down to me. I reached up, expecting him to take my hand and kiss it. Instead, he bent down and grasped me round the arm, giving a pull and hoisting me up behind him. I gave a squeal – this was a far, far bigger horse than Glue – and wrapped my arms tight around his waist. He laid a hand on top of mine, then I felt his legs dig into the horse's sides, and we were off at a canter, doing a lap of honour. I couldn't help it: I gave another squeak and clung on even tighter.

“That feels nice,” said Edric with a laugh. Unlike my Rohir, who moved as if he was part of the horse, I realised I was being bounced up and down like a beach ball, and generally moving completely out of time with the horse, jostling up against Edric in an awkward and (given the fact that my thighs were now pressed against the bum I'd been admiring only a few minutes early) very embarrassing way. Edric was, apparently, not fazed by this. He murmured, so I could only just make out his voice above the crowd, “And that feels very nice.” Eventually, we came to a stop. I loosened my arms.

Edric swung me down from the horse, then slid off himself, dropping gracefully to the ground just beside me. He took both my hands and turned me to face him. In that moment, I felt like I was seeing him properly for the first time. He gazed down at me with a curious intensity.

“You know, I really, really like you, Sophie,” he said, and pulled me close. Suddenly his arms were tight around me, almost lifting me off the ground, and he kissed me. And all those scenes in books and movies suddenly made sense: this was what it felt like. The whole world spun round, and I felt dizzy from lack of oxygen, but I couldn't stop kissing him long enough to breathe. Eventually, his grasp on me slackened, and I found my weight back on my own feet. But I felt really rather shaky.

“So, do you fancy another walk,” he asked me, gently stroking my hair back from my cheek with one hand. I couldn't even speak; I just nodded at him.

As we walked off away from the crowds, hand in hand, I heard Arwen's voice. "Thank the Valar for that. I think she's finally worked out which side her bread's buttered on." 

~o~O~o~

It turns out that you can get plenty of privacy on a trip like this if you really put your mind to it. But that's exactly what it is... privacy... so you, gentle reader, will have to use your imagination.

However, eventually we arrived in Edoras. Huge crowds greeted our arrival. Such was the enormous literary skill of our Shirley that they struck entirely the appropriate mood at all the appropriate times – solemn and sad when Théoden's body was taken from the wain and carried in state to the Hall, awed and excited at the return of their new young king, joyful at the announcement of his coming nuptials. (Author's note to self: must use this trick more often, saves a lot of mental effort in coming up with descriptions). Boromir's excitement was palpable. Éowyn led him by the hand up the steps to the Golden Hall.

“Do you remember when we sat here reading poetry together?” he asked, face aglow with romantic nostalgia.

“What, you mean your book of dirty limericks?” Éowyn responded. Boromir looked crestfallen but perked up a bit when Éowyn kissed him. She continued, “I don't think I could stand a lifetime of serious Elven poetry, but a lifetime with a man who can make me laugh will be just fine.” She gave him another, more lingering kiss.

“ _LaCE_ ,” Boromir gasped when they came up for air. “I want to do this properly.”

“Why do I have to be betrothed to the only man or ellon in this version of Middle Earth who takes _LaCE_ seriously?” muttered Éowyn with a growl of frustration.

“Only another few days and another chapter to go,” Boromir said, running his hand through her hair.

“Good, because I'm quite antsy after that bout of Thanwenitis. Much more of this UST and I will spontaneously combust.”

“UST?” asked Boromir, sounding puzzled.

“Unresolved sexual tension,” said Eowyn. Boromir blushed scarlet at this rather blunt way of putting things. Then a slow grin spread across his face.

“Would I be right in thinking that the more of this UST we can create, the more fun it'll all be when we finally get round to it on our wedding night?” he whispered in her ear.

“Mmm hmm,” said Éowyn as Boromir nuzzled his way down her neck. “Our Shirley says that even when you're writing at M, if you haven't got the characters (and the reader) 95% of the way there before the first item of clothing comes off, you're doing it wrong.”

“That sounds like something good to work on while we're in limbo between chapters and she's off on her hols in the North of Scotland,” Boromir said, sliding his hand under her hair to brush the nape of her neck. Éowyn gave a little appreciative whimper. From my vantage point over the other side of the terrace, I realised that he shared exactly the same lascivious grin as his brother.


	32. Four Weddings and a Funeral

One wedding – Arwen and Aragorn's – we've already dealt with, of course. The second took place not long after we arrived in the Riddermark: Earcongota married Beregond. The two of them made a very sweet couple. For all his rugged manliness, he looked utterly smitten, and despite their age, they both were giggly as a pair of children. Bergil acted as best man for his father, and looked proud as could be standing beside him. The funeral was Théoden's. He was laid to rest in a barrow outside Edoras, amid the barrows of earlier kings of the Mark. I think even those of us who hadn't known him very well cried a bit, because it was so sad to see everyone else looking miserable. Boromir stood next to Éowyn, letting her rest her hand on his arm, and covering it with his own. When we got back to the Golden Hall, I saw Faramir and Éomer alone for a moment before going in to face the throng of people. Just for that moment, Éomer looked utterly forlorn and lost. Faramir put his arm round the new King who buried his face in his fiancé’s shoulder for a fleeting second or two before he managed to pull himself together, square his shoulders and walk through the huge carved doors to lead his people.

But that's enough misery – this story is not about misery. Let's turn our attention to weddings three and four. At last the big day arrived. Ruth, Charlize, Vashtath and I all made our way to Éowyn's chambers to get ready. Between them, Éowyn and Vashtath had dyed all the tulle red and orange, and the best seamstresses in the Mark (a group which did not include our favourite Shieldmaiden in their number) had made them up into rather fetching dresses – not at all meringue-ey or typically bridesmaid-y. They'd made the dresses subtly different to allow for all of our different shapes and colourings – Charlize, being blonde, had rather less of the orange fabric in hers. Ruth and I, having dark hair, got a mix of both, as did Vashtath. As for the bride, well, Middle Earth does not do white wedding dresses – instead, Éowyn's dress was a fantastic creation of cloth-of-gold.

When we got into the Golden Hall we found the men had taken as much care with their appearance. Boromir and Faramir both wore surcoats decorated with the white tree and stars of Gondor, Éomer wore a surcoat embroidered with Eorl the Young on Felarof. Aragorn looked as if Arwen had scrubbed him thoroughly before allowing him out into polite company. Legolas wore a beautiful silk tunic of pale sky blue (and had remembered the correct colour of contact lenses), Gimli a rather smart red tunic (remember, this is book canon young-dwarf Gimli, not movie-verse crusty old ginger Gimli with the cod Scots accent). 

And with that Herculean effort on the fashion journalism front, dear readers, I am done with that strand of writing (you have no idea how much it goes against every fibre of my being to try to describe clothing in that much detail... _muffled sounds of struggle_... okay, that was our Shirley, getting all cross and bothered, but now it's me, Sophie, back again, I have wrested control of the narration back from her).

Another thing that Middle Earth seemed to dispense with was the whole idea of walking the bride up the aisle (and just as well, because it would have made the whole affair rather strange – what with there being one couple half of which was female and another couple which was entirely male). Instead, the two couples stood hand-in-hand before the Bard.

In a clear voice that rang round the hall, the Bard proclaimed, "Now you will feel no rain, for each of you will be shelter for the other. Now you will feel no cold, for each of you will be warmth to the other. Now there will be no loneliness, for each of you will be companion to the other. Now you are two persons, but there is only one life before you. May beauty surround you both in the journey ahead and through all the years. May happiness be your companion and your days together be good and long upon the earth." 

~o~O~o~

I had a marvellous evening. Edric took one look at me in the red tulle, and told me I looked beautiful, then spent most of the time dancing with me. Even better, he didn't actually need to tell me, because he couldn't stop gazing at me with the soppiest expression I've ever seen. Which was quite alright with me, because I have a feeling that I probably had an equally soppy expression, that is, if how I felt inside is anything to go on.

There was one minor upset. I heard Arwen and Aragorn whispering frantically to one another.

“You've got to do it, it's canon,” said the former Elf.

“I can't, it's a horrible line, I hate it,” said Aragorn.

“Of course you hate it, we all do. And if you didn't hate it I wouldn't have married you. But it's in the damn book. You've got to say it.”

“I thought our Shirley was letting me off the hook on this one – I thought 'misogynist Aragorn' was just a joke in chapter 5.”

“Look, just go with it – I'm sure she'll find some way of turning it round.” The Evenstar's voice had a certain note of finality about it.

Aragorn took a deep breath, raised his goblet, gave Eomer a pleading glance which seemed to say _I'm really sorry about this, but I have no choice_ , and said, “No niggard are you, Éomer, to give thus to Gondor the finest thing in your realm.”

Boromir looked furious, and made to stand up, but Éowyn held him back. 

Éomer raised an eyebrow and said, “Is that 'thing' as in _ding an sich_ or _vorstellung_? I'm guessing the latter because a comment that superficial could only be concerned with the surface appearance of things...” 

But his philosophical musings were cut off by Eowyn saying good-naturedly, “Well, I'll take it as a compliment if I'm allowed to add 'No niggard are you, Aragorn, to give thus to the Riddermark the finest thing in your realm'.” Her mouth formed a little moue as she said the word 'thing'. Then she raised her glass to Faramir who raised his in return, giving a half-smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement.

Arwen turned to Éomer and said, “I didn't realise you were interested in the German Idealists...” And with that the two of them fell into a deep and incomprehensible conversation for the next half hour, which even Ruth said she only understood a fraction of.

~o~O~o~

As the evening went on, all capacity for deep intellectual thought got washed away in a tide of alcohol, and hooray for that, say I!

Vashtath got very squiffy indeed and she and Ruth ended up swapping more details about their love lives than any of the rest of us wanted to hear, though some of them were very, very funny. (Ruth's attempt at a suitable euphemism to drop hints to her football-obsessed boyfriend of the moment about her monthly indisposition: “Liverpool are playing at home this week” - which led to the disappointingly literal-minded reply of “No they're not, they're away at Manchester City...”).

But the highlight was the argument between Celeborn and Galadriel, conducted in hissed undertones which weren't really undertones because among the other vintages on offer, Arwen had brought along a case of Dorwinion wine which could get even Elves pissed. 

“It's my bum isn't it? I know it's not as pert as it was three millennia ago...” Galadriel said accusingly.

(Arwen turned to us and whispered, “It's the side effects of all the bacon butties, her favourite dish, introduced to Noldorim aristoracy by her grandmother, Indis of the Vanyar ... A moment on the lips, an eternal life-time on the hips.”)

“Your bum? Of course not, I love your bum. I was just watching those you-tube clips because the guest bathroom in our holiday flet really needs re-grouting. It's been a good four centuries since I last did it and I can't remember how.”

“Prove it then!”

“Prove what?”

“That you love my bum, even if it's a bit wobbly these days.”

“What, now?”

“Yes, now.”

“But where will I get...”

“There's a copy in Boromir's old bedroom – he was looking up last minute wedding décor tips...”

And that is how a drunken Celeborn ended up pursuing an equally drunken Galadriel round the Golden Hall wielding a rolled-up copy of the _Woman's Weekly._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tommy Ginger wanted me to put in her favourite wedding blessing (like Aragorn says, if you're going to plagiarise, nick good stuff). She also challenged me to work in Victoria Wood's final couplet from the Ballad of Barry and Freda...
> 
> Queef Queen suggested the bit about Indis of the Vanyar having a penchant for bacon butties.


	33. Epilogue

So, seven years have passed since our little adventure as tenth (eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth) walkers. What's happened, I hear you ask? Fortunately, I have been keeping in touch (more on how later).

Well, Boromir and Éowyn have ended up blissfully happy, though I suppose you'd already guessed that. They have three children so far. Little Theodwyn Sophie is precisely six years and three months old. I was so chuffed when they gave her my name as a middle name: Boromir said it was a thank you for the kevlar body armour. She's going to become Queen of the Mark eventually, though hopefully not for a long time yet. Fortunately, her Numenorean heritage means she'll live for ages and ages. Ecthelion Darren (that name always makes me laugh) is four. He's eventually going to become Steward of Gondor, after his dad. I would love old Denethor Fire-Starter to know that his grandson had Darren as a middle name. Though I guess he wouldn't get the connotations. And little Finduilas Charlize is two. (Needless to say, that makes me laugh too – I get told off for my snobbery about this, of course. More on who does the telling off later).

As he promised, Boromir takes Éowyn on lots of adventures, doing their knight-errantry thing. They've dealt with dragons and Mirkwood spiders (though not Shelob: our Shirley has her reserved for Leggy and Gimli, a promise she made to her little boy ages ago – story still to be written). While the pair of them are knight-erranting (is that a word?) the children have a whale of time in the Mark with Uncle Éomer and Uncle Faramir. They are, of course, the most doting uncles imaginable. Boromir and Éowyn make a hilarious pair of parents. Éowyn is laid back to the point of being horizontal, Boromir fusses terribly. Between them, though, they seem to have produced a brood of very happy, much loved children. No doubt there will be plenty more, as even seven years down the line, the two of them still can't keep their hands off one another. That's what a big build up of UST does for you.

I don't really need to tell you what happened to Legolas and Gimli – canon slash pairing, remember. It's all there in the appendices (well, minus the snogging, mind you – that was not the Professor's thing at all, not between chaps at any rate). Legolas set up an Elven colony in Ithilien, Gimli brought Dwarves to open up the glittering caves, and the two of them were inseparable, dividing their time between Ithilien and the caves.

Shaznag and Vashtath found themselves a nice cave near the Sea of Nurn, and have started to raise the litter full of whelps they've always longed for. Julian and Bunty (whose relationship remains platonic) took Dobbin, Pet Food and Glue, and sundry other unwanted nags, and set up a riding stable nearby where they now offer pony trekking holidays to the discerning Gondorian middle classes who want to do something a bit “different” in their summer holiday so they can write about it in their Yuletide round-robin letter. In the off-season they've set up a little pony club for all the orc whelps in the vicinity – Vashtath regularly writes to Eowyn about her little ones' progress in the saddle. 

Of course, in order to get there for your jolly hol, you need to somehow get into Mordor, and as we all know, one does not simply walk into Mordor. So it was that Lucinda and her dashing orc captain spotted a business opportunity. They bought the ruins of the guard tower at the top of Cirith Ungol for a song (nothing like a bit of disaster capitalism) and opened it up as an off-beat, atmospheric guest house. Tarquin has started a new career as an itinerant OC, skipping between fandoms. With his floppy blond fringe, piercing blue eyes and fearfully posh accent, he was just made for slash. Last I heard he had a bit part in a Harry/Draco fic, as Blaise Zabini's love interest.

Earcongota and Beregond settled in Edoras. Young Bergil took to horse riding as if he'd been born to it – he got his Rider's cloak a couple of years ago, in Éothain's Éored, and is hoping to make it to the rank of cornet by the time he's 21. Thanks to the Numenorean blood (due to being born the “wrong side of the blanket” after the unfortunate lawn trespass incident), the Piss Prophetess and Faramir's Major Domo found themselves in late middle age with an unexpected addition to the family – little Ethelfleda Ruth. She's a lovely little girl with her dad's dark hair and her mum's startling blue eyes. She goes on medical rounds with her mum, has learned to ride a pony already, and has her doting father completely wrapped round her finger.

Aragorn put Hephaistion and Lothíriel in charge of his expeditionary force to South Gondor (the “debatable lands” according to the map at the back of the books). Between Lothíriel's natural military flair and Machiavellian feel for politics (and uncanny sense of who to assassinate and when for maximum effect), and Hephaistion's strategic brilliance due to his lengthy experience campaigning with Alexander the Great, they had Southern Gondor back firmly under control of the crown in no time. It was only through Aragorn's insistence that he didn't want to become tyrant of the entire known world that they were prevented from conquering the whole of Near Harad and starting an eastern campaign in Rhun – though all Gondor's neighbours have remained remarkably well behaved in the knowledge that Hephaistion and Lothíriel are in charge of the armed forces.

Ruth got back to our world to find Tim in a bit of a state: his latest girlfriend had given him an ultimatum – her or the climbing. He chose climbing; she promptly took up with one of his closest friends. Six months later, after a particularly “gnarly” route (the Walker Spur on the Grandes Jorasses in the French Alps, if you're interested in that sort of thing: our Shirley is, I am not particularly) Tim and Ruth got very drunk on a 3 euro bottle of red plonk from the Payot Pertin in Chamonix and finally ended up in bed (or in sleeping bag) together. A few years later, they decided to get married. Ruth finally told Tim about her adventure in Middle Earth. Not surprisingly he didn't believe her. So she informed him that in an inversion of the usual tradition, she was organising a surprise honeymoon for him. She took him to Minas Tirith, where they set a new direct route on the South face of Mt. Mindolluin (British E2 5c; US 5.10 c; French 6b – but beware, all climbed on trad gear not bolts – again, if you're interested in this sort of thing. Our Shirley insisted I tell you about this. What she didn't tell me to mention was the fact that this is a grade harder than the hardest she ever climbed at her best... and her best was a while back now. Uh oh, I can see her through the web cam... she's now glaring at me over her reading glasses – best stop being bitchy.)

What about Charlize and Darren? Well, returned to our world and his own body, Darren turned out to be a pleasant enough looking lad – quite tall and heavily built (he tells us his time as an Uruk filled out his muscles some). Charlize found that as she'd been mostly interested in Darren's personality rather than his appearance, the change didn't bother her at all (though on one drunken girls' evening out, she did admit that she'd had quite a soft spot for his yellow eyes, and sometimes rather missed them). After sixth form she went to the University of East Anglia to study English and creative writing. Darren went there too to do computer science. They now live in one of those strangely interchangeable little commuter towns off the M4 (Britain's answer – a rather disappointing one – to Silicon Valley). Darren works writing operating systems for mobile devices, Charlize is an English teacher and writes young adult fiction in her spare time. She's hoping to get an agent for her novels.

I went to visit them recently. They've got a little semi on a new-build estate (rented – even programming doesn't get you the deposit on a house within commuting distance of London), and a kitten called Lurtz. The weekend I was there, they had some of their role-playing gamer friends round for the evening. I found the whole thing incomprehensible, but everyone seemed to have a good time pretending to be elves, knights, evil sorcerers, etc. Charlize chose to be a human, and Darren an orc. As the friends left, they gave me a wink and said something to the effect of “watch out for the handcuffs and leather straps.”

I gave Charlize and Darren a puzzled look and the two of them collapsed laughing.

“It's a long standing joke,” said Darren.

“Yes, I always choose to be a young human woman, and he always chooses to be an orc, and by the end of the game, we've always got it together despite the prejudices of our respective societies,” said Charlize.

“So, all our friends think we've got some sort of weird kinky thing going with BDSM and orcs despoiling mortal maidens,” said Darren with a laugh.

“What they don't realise is it's simply nostalgia on our parts!” Charlize wiped away tears of laughter.

“Yup, as Freud said, sometimes a cigar is just a cigar,” Darren finished.

 

And what about me? Well, at first our Shirley had in mind a downbeat ending for me, as she couldn't see how a nice Jewish girl from South Manchester used to a comfortable high-tech existence could ever settle happily to being a yeoman farmer's wife in the Mark, and couldn't see how a young rider from the Mark could be happy in our high-tech world (c.f. “Mary Sue's Ugly Divorce” in her list of favourite stories). So she meant to have an ending where Edric and I said our tearful farewells and got back to life in our own worlds. Edric married a nice lass from the Westfold a couple of years down the line, and I had a succession of boyfriends none of whom quite measured up to Edric. I get quite glum even thinking about this scenario. Fortunately, Sian22 stepped in and told our Shirley she had to conjure up a happy ending for everyone: this was, after all, what she'd promised in the blurb.

So, two things happened. The first was that one day a mysterious parcel arrived in our house in Didsbury, with no return address. I opened it to find... a TARDIS tent. The second happened seemingly by accident (but I suspect scripted by our Shirley). A couple of friends of my parents came round for dinner one Saturday evening. She was a doctor, he was a vet... and they started talking about “who would you want to take to a desert island with you, a doctor or a vet?” He argued that actually a vet would be more useful – loads of comparative anatomy – if you've fixed up everything from tortoises to horses, winging it trying to operate on a human isn't going to be that much of a stretch, and you'd have much more experience in general surgery, because human medics tend to specialise. Not much use having a crack neurosurgeon if what you've got is a compound fracture of the tibia. Not to mention the fact, he had argued, let's face it, on a desert island you weren't going to have high-tech scanners and a full pharmacy at your disposal. And finally, if you managed to tame the horses on the island and domesticate the dogs to help with your hunting, a vet would be far more use than a medic.

This conversation churned round in my mind for a few weeks, then I had my brainwave. My parents were not pleased! I announced that rather than try to get into medical school, I was going to study veterinary medicine instead. Much arguing later, I finally got my way. And we managed to come to an agreement – if I was prepared to go to Manchester University and live at home during term time, I could spend most of the holidays with the mysterious “Finnish” boyfriend I'd met on an outdoor ed course! And that's more or less how things have been ever since – term time at home, holidays in “Finland”, courtesy of the TARDIS tent. Of course, I eventually had to take Edric to meet my parents – he found modern society quite weird and more than a bit scary. (I explained his reaction away as being down to him being from an indigenous tribal society of reindeer herders in the far northern tundra – as you may have guessed, I know nothing about Finland. Fortunately, neither do my parents.)

It has taken a huge amount of time for my parents to get used to Edric. But when I finally graduate in a couple of months time I'm off to the Riddermark for good (or “Finland” as my parents still refer to it). Mum and Dad aren't happy, but they are trying to accept it with a good grace. Our Shirley recycled another of her characters, the dodgy seller of fake/stolen passports from Stockwell, to supply Edric with false papers, so a few months back we actually got married. Edric loved the ceremony – drinking from the shared glass then smashing it so no one could damage our marriage. It's just the sort of symbolism that people in the Mark love. Of course from a Middle-Earth perspective, we've been married for ages: I'm not saying exactly when it was Elfhelm caught us under Edric's cloak, but it was quite a while ago. Incidentally, it's not that being caught under his cloak meant we were considered married (we've skipped that piece of fanon). It was simply that Elfhelm was convinced that it must therefore be only a matter of (very short) time till I fell pregnant (I tried to explain about the condoms, but to no avail). This led to him presiding over a “shotgun”, or perhaps more accurately “sword-point” wedding. (Edric's now a lieutenant in Elfhelm's Eored).

And I'm as prepared as I can be. I'm a dab hand at operating on animals, Earcongota's been teaching me about healing humans when I've gone to visit in my vacations, and I've read up as much as I can on the history of medicine with a view to trying to use cowpox for vaccinations, and maybe try culturing some interesting moulds and see if I can produce anything that behaves like penicillin. And Edric's taught me to ride. There's a few things I won't compromise on: killing chickens is his job; we won't be eating pork; and I intend to celebrate Channukah rather than Yule. And I've got a bit of a surprise for Edric when I arrive – we appear to have finally had that accident Elfhelm was worried about, and I'll arrive in Edoras to stay for good about four months gone. And given what Edric's like, I can guarantee that he'll be over the moon about it.


	34. Post post script

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanwen was so taken with the maid of Ulf Hoo that she wrote a limerick in honour of Sophie and Edric's nuptuals (the joke in German hinges on the fact that Same - the indigenous tribes of the north of Finland - is a homonym of something with a rather different meaning in German).

Ein junger Reiter der Mark  
sprach: "Geographie ist doch Quark.  
Ob Eorling, ob Finne,  
meiner Frau stehn die Sinne  
danach, dass der Same ist stark." 

Loose translation:  
A Rider of the Mark of some fame  
Said "Geography's only a game  
Whether Eorling or Finn  
My wife's only whim's  
That the strength of the Sami/[something else beginning with 's'] is the same. " 

More literal (but less poetic) translation:  
A young Rider of the Mark  
said: "Geography is baloney.  
Whether Eorling or Finn,  
my wife is not averse  
to the Sami/(or all the other things ;)) being strong."

And for completeness - the Maid of Ulf Hoo ("young lady from Crewe...")  
There was a young maid of Ulf Hoo  
Who said as the cornet withdrew  
"The marshal is thicker  
And quicker and slicker  
And half an inch longer than you."

(The original features a curate and a vicar.)


End file.
